


By Any Other Name

by delazeur, Khirsah



Series: Voice-verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Voiceverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 105,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/pseuds/delazeur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry. At least, that's what they claim.</p><p>Dorian has no intention of being bonded. He's prepared to deny his soulmate and walk away...but there's no denying Taran Trevelyan: Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, potential savior of Thedas, and, frustratingly, undeniably, indelibly the other half of Dorian's soul.</p><p>Maker save them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Josselyn Trevelyan

**Author's Note:**

> By Any Other Name takes place in the same universe as Fire, Walk with Me (Hawke/Fenris) and A Part of Your World (Warden/Alistair).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** There is a (only very vaguely described) childbirth scene in which the mother dies. If this is triggering to you, please skip to Chapter Two.

It was an ill-fated day, rainclouds hugging the coast and each buffeting wind bringing with it the scent of an oncoming storm. Josselyn could see its warning flickers spreading out across the Waking Sea; each flare of lightning seemed to catch on white-crested waves, making them glow eerily before they were swallowed back into the ocean’s depths.

Eyes, she thought, wrapping skinny arms around herself with a shiver. This far out, they looked like _eyes_ in the dark. A score of them, more, blinking slowly as they eased ever-closer.

Watching her. Why were they always, always watching her?

“Josselyn!”

She turned with a start, one hand jerking to cover a barley stifled scream. Cassius was picking his way across the cliff face toward her, gripping the hilt of his practice blade where it rested in its loose scabbard. He was still wearing his leathers, the weathered breastplate etched with the Trevelyan family seal. It fit poorly, and even in the dim, she could see where its straps had been mended and re-mended several times.

He was scowling. Of course, with _another_ brother or sister on the way, they both had good reason to be scowling.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, vaulting up the last few rocks. He caught her arm, but Josselyn jerked away, long skirts swirling about her legs. His scowl deepened. “You _know_ you’re not supposed to leave the manor after dark.”

“There’s no one to see me,” Josselyn pointed out. “Anyone who might _care_ is already inside, anyway, tending to Mama.”

Cassius caught her arm again. “Which is why we should be there, in case anyone thinks to look for us. Come on,” he added, giving her a hard tug.

Josselyn let herself be pulled along a few steps before remembering. “Wait!” she cried, slipping free of his grasp again. For all that Cassius was big and strong for a boy of barely fifteen, she was _fast_. “I didn’t come out here to watch the sea. I was— Here.” She snagged the basket she had nestled between two jutting rocks. It was filled with leafy green fronds, the sharp stench of elfroot swirling around her as Josselyn settled it into the crook of her arm. “All right, _now_ you can play disapproving Templar.”

The look he shot her almost made her regret the tart words. It wasn’t Cassius’s fault she was no good at following orders. “I’m sorry,” Josselyn added quietly, leaning in to buss his cheek. His scowl deepened, but he didn’t pull away. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did.” Cassius glanced back out toward the water, straight, serious brows twin slashes over his wary eyes. “Did you see anything this time?”

“No,” Josselyn lied, threading her arm through her twin’s and squeezing it gently. “There’s nothing to see. Come on; I suppose we really should be getting back.”

Together, they wended their way down the rocky slope toward the gentle moorland that led to the manor’s front door. Trevelyan House was an ancient thing, crouched unsteadily some ways back from the coast, as if considering a bounding leap off the nearest rocky cliff. In the growing dark, its slate-grey walls and crumbling roof were barely visible. Only the occasional candle-lit window was clear, blinking lazily as the two children made their way back into its shadow.

Eyes again, locked on her. And the sensation of being watched was just getting worse as the years went by, not _better_ the way _Tante_ Maria had promised it would.

 _You can’t see me_ , Josselyn thought, staring up at the brightest window, where Mama was giving birth to their latest sibling under Tante’s watchful gaze. _I’m not strong enough to matter._ And then, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something _was_ watching her, creeping ever-closer: _Go away!_

The wind howled in response.

Josselyn shivered and fought to smile away Cassius’ worried frown. “Cold,” she said, squeezing his arm before letting him go. “Come on—I’ll race you up to the house.”

Cassius couldn’t resist a challenge. They ran the rest of the way, Josselyn taking the lead before she deliberately began to slow, letting Cassius outpace her. The howling wind felt good as it streamed through her tangles of hair, and her long skirts snapped and furled behind her like she was a Rivaini skiff chasing the breeze. The first light patter of rain hit her upturned face, and Josselyn felt a sudden wildly defiant joy. Laughing, she could almost ignore the rumble of thunder on the horizon, or the way the storm windows were already rattling in their grooves as the two came tumbling into the house.

She slammed the door shut behind them and fell back against it, breathless. The main entrance hall—which used to be grand—was dark. Her hair was a tangle and her skirts were sodden; anyone who saw her would know where she had been.

Voices drifted from the second landing.

Cassius placed a hand over his lips and quickly slipped through the left-hand door even as the voices went quiet. Josselyn covered a giggle with one hand, slipping out of sight at the first tred of heels on the cold stone.

“Hello?” one of her older sisters called, but she and Cassius were already threading through the back halls and toward the servants’ stair. There were only two servants left now—elves who were old enough they didn’t really have anywhere else to go—but neither was anywhere to be seen.

“Come on,” Cassius whispered, thundering up the stairs. “The attic!”

“Okay!” she whispered back. Josselyn sped after her twin, woven basket banging merrily against her thigh in time to her drumming heels. A floorboard creaked loudly just past the next landing and she cursed as she struggled to keep the damp weight of her long skirts out of the way of her feet. She probably would have made it if she hadn’t had to pause long enough to yank the trailing ends out of the way. In the half-second it took to reorient herself, the door flung open and _Tante_ Maria stepped straight into her path.

Josselyn abruptly skidded back a step, startled. She could feel her heel teetering over the lip of the topmost stair, but _Tante_ grabbed her flailing arm before she could fall, yanking her through the doorway and onto the main landing.

“You are late,” the Orlesian woman hissed as she sailed down the dim and dingy halls, Josselyn caught like flotsam in her wake. “Your poor Mama has been left to suffer on her own, and your Papa has been asking after you. You _know_ you were to be back before he thought to notice.”

“I’m sorry,” Josselyn said. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, spotting Cassius peeking around the doorway. She forced herself to smile reassuringly at him before turning her attention back to _Tante_. “I had trouble finding enough elfroot.”

Her old nursemaid sniffed down at her. “Lies. I can scent the wildness on you.”

Josselyn flushed. There was no hiding anything from _Tante_ , no matter how hard she tried. Years ago, when the dreams had first come, she’d tried to hide those from everyone…well, after confessing the strange things she saw to her father.

That had not gone well. They’d lost a sister to the Circle _years_ before, and the Trevelyans—already clinging to the fringes of Marcher society, backwards and poor and too big for their own good in the ramshackle manor on the moors—couldn’t afford to be known as a family given to magic.

So she hid the whispers, and she hid from sight, and only _Tante_ and Father and Cassius knew that eyes sometimes watched her from the shadows.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice dropping low. She hated disappointing _Tante_ almost as much as she hated being cooped up inside. “I’ll do better. The next time you send me out on an errand, I won’t stray.”

“Oh child,” her _Tante_ murmured, pausing outside Mama’s door. She turned, grip on Josselyn’s arm going gentle, and cupped her jaw. Those dark, often stern eyes were warm enough to stir a breathless sort of love inside Josselyn’s young breast. “How you _lie_. Now smile pretty for your mama and stay out of sight unless we need you. You remember what I taught you?”

“I do,” she whispered, afraid.

“Good.” _Tante_ brushed the pad of her thumb along Josselyn’s cheek, then turned and pushed open the doors. Mama’s bedroom was dark, only a single candle in the window casting light. The air felt heavy and thick, filled with anticipation. Two of Josselyn’s older sisters moved quietly about the room, one helping Mama walk across the creaking floorboards, another changing the bed linens. There was a dark stain spreading across the sheets she bundled up and dropped to the floor, and when Josselyn sucked in a breath, her lungs were filled with the scent of copper.

Father was by the window. He turned when they entered, eyes going straight to Josselyn, dark brows drawn fierce.

He knew.

“I brought elfroot,” Josselyn blurted before he could say anything. “ _Tante_ sent me for it.”

“The child can help,” _Tante_ added in a quiet undertone, one hand falling to the curve of her spine.

The physician—older and frailer than any man Josselyn had ever seen, soft drifts of hair as white as any cloud—looked up from his bag. “Yes, good,” he said in his thin voice. “Good, good, more elfroot never hurt anyone. Would you be so kind as to…”

His words trailed off when Mama gave a low moan.

“You know what to do, child,” _Tante_ hissed, giving her a little push toward the old writing desk. It had been shoved into the corner to make room for all of Mama’s attendants. Josselyn glanced toward her mother—a strange, hunched shape in the dark—as she set the basket down and began methodically stripping leaves.

“How much longer will this be?” Father asked.

Mama looked up, face drawn tight, as if her skin didn’t quite fit anymore. The sudden flare of firelight caught in her dark eyes. “The girls and I will handle this,” she said tightly. “You may go.”

He frowned. “I should be here.” _It’s what’s expected_ , he didn’t add. He didn’t have to.

But Mama shook her head, eyes closing against a pain. “I do not want you here.” She leaned more heavily against Josselyn’s older sister, silver-streaked dark hair falling in a curtain over her face. “ _Go._ ”

Father drew himself up, tension radiating around him like a thunderclap, and Josselyn shrank back into herself in sudden fear. She could feel the electricity in the air like a real, living thing. It danced over her skin; it made her fingertips itch. She swore, for a moment, she almost saw its _spark_.

But then he let out his breath and gave a sharp, too-polite incline of his head before stalking past his wife and daughters and out of the dark room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

“Quickly, Ara,” _Tante_ said, springing into action. “Get the window. Cora, we need more light. Josselyn…?”

“I’m ready,” she said, her voice suspiciously quavery. Josselyn swallowed and clenched her hands into fists, bright sparks dying. Or no, no, they _had never been_. She had to remember that.

Mama gave an unsteady laugh. “I want this over with,” she said, gripping _Tante_ ’s shoulders hard as she was pressed into the older woman’s tender grip. “I want to be _done_. No more. I can’t bear it again. _Tante_ , I will come at him with a _blade_ if he tries to—”

“ _Hush_ ,” _Tante_ murmured into her mother’s hair, supporting her the way she had done so many times. Several feet away, the useless old physician cleared his throat and busied himself with his tinctures. “Three of your beautiful children are here, and they do not need to listen to the words buzzing in your skull. Just focus on bringing your babe to the world, and the future will take care of itself.”

But Mama was too far gone. “No more,” she said, tears on her cheeks. Her fingers dug into _Tante_ ’s shoulder and she gave a whuffing breath, other hand dropping to her straining belly. “I don’t want it. I don’t want him. _Tante_ …”

“ _Hush_. Josselyn!”

Josselyn startled, horrified gaze dragging from her mother to _Tante_. Her sisters were silent and pale, watching the scene unfold like the bitter stirrings of a gothic novel. “ _Tante_ ,” she whispered. The newly opened windows rattled against the wind, rain soaking the sill. Thunder cracked, and lightning lit the small room.

She could _feel_ the demons pressing against her mind.

“Be ready.” _Tante_ didn’t see them; _Tante_ didn’t know they were there. _Tante_ didn’t realize that if Josselyn called on her small bit of secret magic to fumblingly heal…whatever needed to be healed…they might come swooping out of the night to drag her away.

Her small fingers curled around the vines of elfroot—her meager excuse for the wonders she might be called on to perform. Cora moved to join her, trying to catch her eye and smile, and over her shoulder, Josselyn saw Ara echoing the gesture. They didn’t know; they couldn’t know. _No one could know_ , and oh Maker, Maker…

Mama cried out just as another crack of thunder shook the old house. _Tante_ and the surgeon leapt to assist as the final stages began; Josselyn could feel it thick in the air, could feel a sharp tugging begin deep in her breast as if… As if her heart were beating in time with her mother’s. As if against her will and against what fumbling, limited training _Tante_ could give her, her _magic_ were responding to her newest sibling’s birth.

Her breath came in quick, harsh pants. She wanted, all at once, to turn on her heel and _fly_ out into the storm. Cora dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed. Ara moved to Mama’s side. “I was five when you were born,” Cora murmured, helping Josselyn with the last of the elfroot. “I couldn’t understand what was happening, but the next morning, you and Cassius were brought down to the breakfast table—ugly little things, like speckled beans wrapped in swaddling.”

Josselyn gave a breathless laugh, looking up. Cora smiled down at her, reaching to brush back the wild tangle of Josselyn’s hair. “But you grew on me. And then two years later, Ellen, and a year after that, Claire, and a year after _that_ Nerida, then Thea…”

“And then ten years,” Josselyn said, not looking at their mother. Not _letting_ herself look. “Mama doesn’t want this baby. She’s too _old_ for it. She’ll—”

Cora shot a quick look toward their mother as a sharp cry filled the room. “Hush,” she said, not unkindly. “She’ll bear it. And this baby will grow up big and strong like all the rest of us have…and someday he or she will be old enough to flee this place like all the rest of us _will_. Even you, little bird.”

“Promise?” Josselyn whispered, feeling a stirring deep inside her.

Cora’s smile was so incredibly sad. “I promise,” she said—and then a tiny, tremulous wail filled the air, and there was no more time in which to be afraid. They all sprang into action, Cora hurrying to Mama’s side, the surgeon bracing her body against his own. Mama was lost beneath the flurry and Josselyn took an anxious step toward her, magic humming in her blood—only to stop at the hard look _Tante_ shot her.

 _Tante_ stood, arms filled with a tiny, sluggishly wriggling form wrapped in a dark shawl. She strode to Josselyn and pressed the bundle into her arms. “See that he’s healthy,” she murmured. “We will see to your Mama.”

“But I don’t want—” Josselyn began. If she were to use this power building up inside her, she wanted it to be on her _mother_ , not this unwanted creature.

But _Tante_ shot her a furious look and Josselyn swallowed back her protests, nodding. “Yes ma’am,” she murmured, falling back to the small writing table again. She turned her back on the bustle of activity, sensing the heavy _tug_ of her mother’s need even as she forced herself to ignore it. Hands trembling, Josselyn laid the baby on the table and tried to focus on him instead.

He was little. So pathetically, terribly little—too small, surely, to survive. He was flushed purple-red, still slick, his face scrunched up and tremulous, kittenish wails falling from his tiny mouth. Impotent fists flailed, and she could feel the weakness in him. Little heart pounding too hard, strained and irregular in its beats and…

And something was wrong.

Pressing closer, Josselyn strained to hear. She laid her fingers across his weak chest, hand easily spanning him from neck to thigh. _Premature_ , _Tante_ had said. It wasn’t until now that Josselyn truly understood what that could mean.

“Shh, shh,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she tried to sense the fragile workings of his flesh and blood and bone. She heard the whooshing of his blood, the way his lungs filled with each breath, the constricting of his veins…the whistling in his heart, a tiny hole where there should be none.

Josselyn pulled back, horrified—and in that moment, somehow, those scrunched up eyes opened and she didn’t see another useless baby born into the Trevelyan family a good ten years too late. Instead, she saw her _brother_ , tiny, in pain. Dying.

She had to do something.

“It’s all right,” she said, as soothing as she could. She gathered him up into her arms again, cradling his head, shocked at how light he was. How fragile. “Shh, shh, it’s all right. I’ll help you.” And then, because she needed a name to attach to the tiny, dwindling life in her arms: “You’ll be Taran. From the story books. From my very _favorite_ story. I’ll tell it to you someday,” Josselyn promised, reaching for the threads of magic—deeper than _Tante_ had ever allowed her to go, because her heart was pounding in time with Taran’s, and she _would not_ let him die. “I promise, I’ll tell you so many stories if you just grow strong.”

Outside the crumbling manor, the wind howled. Josselyn swore she heard voices on the wind, like rat’s nails over glass, but she was too focused on tearing open the barriers she kept around her magic and feeding it into Taran’s little body. He needed more than the little magic she’d dared used before; he needed _so much_.

Just across the room, collapsing back into the arms of her daughters, Eleanor Trevelyan sucked in a breath…and went still. Cradled within his big sister’s arms, filled to bursting with the magic Josselyn was never supposed to yield so strongly, Taran Trevelyan sucked in a breath…and let it out on a gusty, _healthy_ wail.

The wind howled across the moor in warning. The eyes watched the little tableau in the darkness.

Taran lived the night his mother died…and the demons came to haunt Trevelyan House for good.


	2. Dorian

It wasn’t fair. 

Dorian kicked the door again, watching the ebony-inlaid teak rattle in its frame, scowling at how wooly-headed the wards were making him feel. Father was going to be furious. At this point it didn’t matter if it was with Dorian or the Circle. If the door opened again it would be best to just start running and never go home. 

It had opened three times since he’d been pushed inside by pinching fingers on his ear (which still hurt, he noted as he rubbed at the shell under his disheveled hair) to wait in the small isolation room for whatever punishment was decided. As if after setting Craius’ hair on fire there was any real question of that. Each time he’d been given some food, some water, and a stern lecture on the severity of his actions. 

He flopped back onto the thin cot and stared at the ceiling, letting out a shout of frustration, his voice sounding thin and pathetic to his own ears. He was going to be expelled from Carastes and Father was going to _flay_ him. 

So, he was enjoying his last moments of freedom, ironically, in this little cell for bad children with poor control over their powers. Well, Dorian was bad, at least. And the only thing he had poor control over was his sulking.

The bolt on the door startled him as it was thrown and he jumped off the bed. _Greet your fate with your head up, Lord Dorian,_ Delectus was fond of telling him when he was hiding from his mother’s ire and the big, affable man was sent to find him. Dorian lifted his chin, skinny arms folded tightly across his chest. Please let it be Delectus. 

The door swung open and instead it was Lucia. Of bloody course it was Lucia. 

“I see the reports of your lack of contrition are entirely accurate.” She was tall, as tall as his father, and dressed in his colors, the collar of a bonded slave thick and heavy around her neck. 

_Unum vinctum_ , severe, studious, and proud, Dorian’s father had been in possession of her for more than half his life, and Dorian was entirely sure if his own _unum vinctum_ was such a stone-faced crow of a woman he’d throw himself off the gates of Minrathous onto the head of a golem rather than accept her. 

He was really quite sick with the idea. 

She had her hands clasped, the fall of the long, full sleeves of her tunic hiding them. They had been cut in such a way that the embroidery on each cuff completed the other when she stood just like that, a stylized, coiling snake that glittered in gold thread, like Father’s crest. Lucia stepped aside in the doorway. “Nothing to say at all? Are you sure they didn’t make you Tranquil as punishment? Presumptuous, but I can’t say I disagree.” 

Dorian felt cold, naked fear wash through him as he scampered through the door in front of her. No one had said Craius was dead, or critically injured, and Dorian didn’t think they’d punish him that severely for a stupid, no-talent, ginger getting some of his stupid hair scorched down to the scalp by a swarm of beetles made of fire. “They won’t! They wouldn’t! Father wouldn’t let them!” 

“And if I told you that a contract for your mother to bear a second child was at this moment being drawn up?” Lucia’s eyes seemed to gleam with a small, cruel light. 

“Is that true?” Dorian felt his lower lip go all soft and wobbly, his voice tiny. 

Lucia’s sniff was a sharp blade that seemed to score his skin with disdain, though whether it was for Dorian or the idea he couldn’t quite tell. “As if he’d bother. Her first whelp is enough trouble.” She led the way down the hall and out of the detention ward. 

He had to trot to keep up, her long, hateful legs eating ground, and when he asked where they were going she ignored him. She was just a slave. His father’s horrible, life-ruining _unum vinctum_ that he hated. No matter how hard he studied, how keenly he listened, she always found fault, pressed her pointy bitter fingers into the soft spots, made him feel weak. Unworthy. And then got this look that was as good as a sneer when his mother praised him. She was a complete ogre. 

It should have occurred to him as he scrambled to keep up that his father would be waiting in the atrium, though he probably wouldn’t have pictured him seated and sipping something that obnoxiously violet out of a tiny glass shaped like a lily. With the headmaster. Dorian swallowed. Well, they weren’t going to make him Tranquil here. 

He straightened his robes, smoothed his hair, and tried to pass Lucia so that he could present himself as he’d been taught, like the scion of Pavus, the legacy that he supposedly was. 

Her long, biting fingers scruffed him by the back of his collar. 

She never should have done that in public. For all _vincta_ were more than common slaves, and in households like Dorian’s parents’ were kept close as treasured retainers, they were still owned. They couldn’t be sold or inherited, or ever, _ever_ freed once bound. But they were still slaves. For Lucia to break decorum quite so baldly where someone other than Father could see? He must have been truly angry with Dorian, and she was the glass that his shadow reflected in. It was his anger in her hand as she snatched and shook him and Dorian saw the moment the headmaster gave his father the _look_. 

Dorian had seen that look plenty of times, usually tossed at students of the Carastes Circle with little merit and next to no prospects, but plenty of money when they bragged about their families instead of their magical talent. It was reserved for the dumbest of the vulture-hopefuls to the magisterium and now the headmaster was looking at the head of House Pavus, Magister in his own right, with just that level of disdain. Disrespect. 

Lucia’s hand trembled and loosened, the full length of Dorian’s feet finding the floor again. There were birds painted on the blue and white tiles. He’d always found it strange that the floor was painted to look like the sky. 

“The carriage, Lucia. Take the boy.” Father’s voice was almost bored, a silk-soft lie. Dorian flinched as Lucia’s hand fell to his shoulder, but the touch was careful, he’d think it controlled if he couldn’t feel the way her fingers trembled as she steered him out of the atrium. Behind them he could hear Father speaking, but the words were lost. All Dorian could catch was the word, _apologies_ , in a tone that Father used when he found whatever Dorian was doing tiresome, and it was enough to drive an angry flush up in his cheeks, tears pricking in his eyes. 

Father’s carriage was waiting outside the broad marble steps of the main building and that meant there had never been any question about collecting Dorian and taking him home. He was helped inside by the slave standing attendant, followed by Lucia who sat in the opposite corner from him, dark eyes narrowed, watching. The silence kept on and on until Dorian started to squirm. 

“Stop.” Her voice was like a whip crack in the silence of the coach. 

“You can’t tell me what to do.” They both knew that was more of a wish than anything. Most of the time Lucia’s spoke with Father’s authority. After her slip in the courtyard, he wasn’t sure if that was still true. 

“Flouting your father’s will further is going to make things very uncomfortable for you.” 

_Uncomfortable_. He wasn’t sure the scalding heat in his cheeks would ever fade. He was expelled and everyone would be whispering about it and Mother would want to know why he couldn’t just behave. “If you were my _unum vinctum_ I’d drown myself in the courtyard fountain.” 

“If I were yours I would drown you in the courtyard fountain,” Lucia snapped back through gritted teeth. “Now, be silent, little peacock.” 

Dorian could grit his teeth too. He didn’t want to be silent. Especially not when _she_ told him to, but if he antagonized her, Father would _know_ and whatever punishment was coming, it would only be worse. 

When Father finally joined them, Dorian had been reduced to snapping multi-colored sparks between his fingertips. It let him ignore the lead ball in his stomach, the dread, the shame that ran like stinging insects down his back whenever he felt Lucia’s eyes on him. 

When the carriage door suddenly slammed open he sat straight, the tiny purple spark arcing into something very close to a proper lightning bolt between his left hand and his right. He sat on his hands as Father climbed in and sat next to Lucia. 

There seemed to be no room in the coach for anything other than his disapproval, everything else pushed into the corners, made small and cramped in the face of Father’s frown. Dorian felt the tears starting in his eyes again and would have drawn his feet up to hide his face in his knees, but he was afraid to put his slippers on the seat. 

When the carriage lurched into motion the tense silence was broken only by the rumble of the wheels on the stone flags of the street. 

It seemed like that’s all Dorian heard for three days. The trip from Carastes to Qarinus via ship was dangerous this time of year, the Ventosus Straits harassed by pirates and Qunari warships both. Dorian had been delivered to Carastes by ship, and that trip was lodged into his memory as gripping for both nightmares that they would be attacked by a dreadnaught and he would be taken away to have his mouth sewn shut and his eyes gouged out, and the volume of bile he’d sicked up over the rails. 

Being trapped in the carriage for days with Lucia and Father was terrible, but a ship would have been worse. 

What he was supposed to make of the oppressive, brooding silence from his father, and the way Lucia flinched any time he so much as breathed too loudly, did nothing to make the journey enjoyable though. 

The second night at the wayside inn that slouched next to the highway, Dorian dared to finally speak. Dinner was cleared and his father was seated at the small table, writing a letter to… someone important if Father was bothering to write them from the road. Two days of silence, of Father never addressing Dorian directly, but only speaking _about_ him to Lucia had started to make him wonder if she hadn’t been lying about the contract for a second child.

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you and Mother.” He’d been instructed to go to sleep, but the scratching of the quill had started to sound like the gnawing of rats in the silence, and Dorian couldn’t keep still anymore. 

He also couldn’t bring himself to turn his head to look at his father, and his eyes snapped shut at the click of the inkwell being capped. Why had he done that? Foolish little Dorian, mouth running away again. Now he had Father’s attention, what did he think was going to happen?

“It cost a great deal of money to settle the boy’s injury. He’s going to have scars for the rest of his life. Your name will have a mark against it at whatever academy you go to next. And for what, Dorian? A child’s pride and jealousy?” Father sounded more tired than angry. 

“I’m not jealous of Craius Iridus!” The idea was stupid. Ridiculous. Revolting even. He sat up, throwing the coverlet off of him and glared -- not at Father, he wasn’t insane. 

“It didn’t have anything to do with his announcement that his family had acquired his future bondslave?” Something in Father’s tone made Dorian wary, worried. 

“He’s a liberati serf who looks like a potato dipped in red paint.” 

“You’re being petulant, Dorian.” Father’s sigh made his chest ache. 

“And she’s probably some warty frontier carter’s daughter who doesn’t know how to read!” 

Father pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes hidden from him, and Lucia who had been quiet in the corner with a book in her lap raised her head with a frown. It should have been cast at Dorian. Instead it was darted at Father and then back down at her book. 

That was even more unsettling than the sigh had been. 

“Well, you bested a boy four years your senior in a fairly fought duel, so it only seems fair to begin your search.” 

That hadn’t been what Dorian expected at all. Not at _all_. To be sent to the Fade with a belly full of lyrium to try to search out the one person in the whole world who was destined to be his most jealousy held possession? There was no knowing how strong a mage he would be for years yet, and then not until the bond had been completed as well. The power he’d had at his fingertips when he’d bested Craius had been utterly terrifying, and now Father was saying it was enough to risk calling attention to him in the Fade by sending him deeply enough to find his _unum vinctum_? He shuddered. 

The abject panic that Dorian was feeling must have shown on his face because for the first time in two days Father smiled.

The lyrium was all freezing and hot and gritty and smooth as sunlight on his skin when he drank it. Dorian’s head still swam as he looked around Father’s study-- or at least the reflection of it he found in the Fade. He was supposed to listen. Listen and wait and Father would make sure no demons took an interest in him being in the Fade so very deeply for the first time.

“He’s so _young_ , Halward.” Mother had disapproved of the idea of sending him to try to find his _unum vinctum_. Of course Mother had also refused to believe he’d been the one to challenge Craius to the duel that got him expelled. 

“Please, Aquinea, you’re being absurd. With as strong as his magic has already become, there’s no reason not to look for her. The sooner we acquire her the better.” Halward refused to explain why it was so important for Dorian’s _unum vinctum_ to be acquired, at least not in Dorian’s earshot, but he thought it had to do with demons probably. 

Not that they visited Dorian’s dreams often, but them going away for good was really the only reason Dorian could imagine wanting to find the girl that would be his bonded slave. Some porridge-brained Ferelden farmgirl probably, because that’s just how unfair his life was. He had shuddered and scowled and wondered at how _wrong_ the very idea felt. 

So here he stood in the Fade straining to hear something that was supposed to be like the… beat of his heart or the way his magic hummed inside him. It was the rest of his power, the power that was his by right, waiting for him to find it and claim it and _use_ it. To become the son Father would be proud of. 

It was just he didn’t hear any of that. 

He stomped in a slow circle, hands fisted at his sides. Useless. And without even any demons lurking around to bother _boring_ too.

Dorian had no idea how long he would be stuck here because time was always different when dreaming, but the thought of waking suddenly and soon to the disappointment in his father’s face that he’d failed here too made him grow still and reach as hard as he could for anything. 

He took a step. 

The cliff was wild with heather, swept by wind, and he could see a girl no more than sixteen standing on the edge staring out at the sea. Her dark hair was a tangle blown wild around her. She was holding something and singing and the whole place stank of demons. A mage then? 

Dorian’s skin bloomed in goosebumps. Some mages had vincta that were mages as well, and the stories about them were unsettling. Powerful, yes, but prone to madness. Poisoned. All of a sudden Lucia’s taunt that his parents would draw another contract for a second child seemed so easy to believe. But their line would forever be tarnished, having thrown such an aberrant child.

Tears were stinging his eyes as he picked his way around a gorse bush that the second time he looked was full of bloody rags, caught in the thorns and waving in the wind like ribbons. He could barely see her through the blurring. How would he explain it? _I’m so sorry, Father, but I can’t be the Archon someday because I’m going to go mad with power and bring down the Imperium if I do?_

Nothing was ever going to be okay ever again. _Bivenium_. She was _bivenium_ and, somehow worse, a _girl_. 

As he came abreast of her, wondering how she still couldn’t see him, he caught a glimpse of her profile and the bundled doll she held. Nothing was right about this. 

_Nothing._

Dorian broke into giddy, desperate giggles. She wasn’t his. Not at all. Some trace of a tingle had pulled him here, but when he looked at her it was empty when by all the tales he’d heard it should be like a crash of thunder or a bolt of lighting or some other really over-used turn of phrase, but what he shouldn’t feel was _nothing_. But that’s all there was. Some tiny flicker, an echo of an echo, but if he hadn’t been so desperate not to disappoint Father in the first place he wouldn’t have felt it at all. And he was so relieved he was practically crying. 

He wasn’t going to have to explain that he’d found his future bond and she was some Southern apostate who was going to die a scaly abomination like they did down there. It was okay, because she wasn’t his. 

Dorian could hear her voice now, the wind whistling in his ears carrying her words to him and not away, and the song she was singing… he’d heard it before he thought. A cradle song? Maybe one of the slaves or… Lucia? When had she ever sang to anyone? Who would want to listen? 

But the girl broke off and whispered to the doll in her arms, “Shhh, Taran, you didn’t mean it. You’ll be a good baby. Tell mother hello,” and then the rag wrapped bundle that was full of bones and not a doll at all tumbled out of her arms and into the waves.


	3. Cassius Trevelyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Minor character deaths and non-explicit references to blood.

He was ripped awake by the sound of screams.

They rose and rose and rose from somewhere deep inside the house, raw and real and _terrible_. For a moment, hearing them, Cassius was locked in reflexive terror—a little boy again rather than a grown man of nearly twenty. He had to fight the urge to clap his hands over his ears, curling up instinctively against the old nightmares that followed him from his sleep.

Ah, Maker, it was happening again.

He flinched back from the thought before he could stop himself. And then he remembered that he was supposed to be a man—that other than his twin, he was the oldest Trevelyan _left_ in the manor—and the fear was pushed away by a sudden flare of duty. His younger sisters were in this house; his baby brother was in this house. He couldn’t afford to be afraid.

Gritting his teeth, Cassius swung out of bed, fumbling for the sword he kept propped against his nightstand. He overextended, bumping an unlit lantern and sending it teetering over to crash on the floor. It fractured, oil spattering his feet and tiny shards of glass digging into his heels as he sprinted for the door; he barely noticed.

 _Protect them, protect them, protect them_. It was a mantra blaring in his mind—like his own kind of inner scream.

He slammed out into the hall, drawing his sword and letting the faded scabbard drop behind him. The screams rose into a fevered pitch, drifting up from the main stairwell. Desperate ululations, thick and throaty and terrible enough to steal his breath.

“Cassius!” one of his sisters hissed from her cracked-open doorway. Another was stepping out into the hall, a dagger in her trembling hand. Further down the hall, other doors were opening one by one.

“Stay here,” Cassius ordered, knowing they wouldn’t listen. He took a step toward the landing, grip on his sword tightening, ready to face whatever he must—

—and froze mid-step when the terrible noise suddenly _stopped_.

It was over as abruptly as it had begun, like a flame being snuffed out. No trailing off, no shuddery exhale, no slow diminuendo—just _silence_ , as ominous as the horror it replaced. There was something heavy about that quiet. Patient. _Waiting._ Cassius glanced over his shoulder at the pale, anxious faces of his younger sisters and thought, _No way am I going down there now_.

But he had to, didn’t he? So he swallowed back the creeping dread and forced himself to creep forward again.

The old house creaked and moaned with every step, the sound of settling wood unnervingly loud in the weighted silence. He had to swallow back an uneven breath and force himself to keep going, shuffling forward to help mitigate the tell-tale sound of his tred. Even so, every time he moved there was a _creeeak_ and _grooooan_ , as if Trevelyan House itself had turned against him.

_Fuck._

Cassius held his breath and shuffled toward the main landing, gesturing occasionally to remind his sisters to _stay back_. He couldn’t say which of them bothered to listen, but it was too late to round everyone up into their rooms now; he was nearly at the landing, where he would see and be seen, no matter the consequences.

But before he could reach the landing and take stock of whatever horrors waited for him, a second, even more chilling sound drifted from below:

 _Laughter_.

Bright, infectious, _young_. A little boy’s joy. And threaded through it, the distant rumble of thunder underscored by a familiar tune. A lullaby.

All at once, Cassius knew what was waiting below. All at once, he knew it was so, so much worse than any of them had feared.

He whirled on his heel, one hand out-flung toward his younger sisters— _two_ of whom were creeping behind him, expressions set in varying degrees of determination and horror. They froze in place, pale in the sudden crack of lightning. Just beyond Claire and Nerida, Cassius could make out Ellen and Thea hovering at their doors, ghostly in their long nightgowns.

“It’s all right,” he lied in a steady whisper, gesturing in what he hoped was a commanding way. “Go back to bed.”

“Are you _insane_?” Nerida hissed; she gripped the hilt of her knife tighter. “Keep going. _Taran_ is down there _._ Josselyn could—”

He saw the moment she understood. The next flash of lightning highlighted the horror there perfectly as, down below, baby Taran gave another delighted, chilling, hollow laugh.

“ _Go_ ,” Cassius pleaded. No matter how hard he tried to remember he was a man grown, with each sick second that passed, he felt more and more like a little boy again. “It’s going to be okay. Josselyn’s just having another one of her spells, that’s all.”

“Oh Maker,” Claire breathed, hand over her mouth. The front door _banged_ against the wall on a sudden gust of wind, making her startle; it howled in from across the rocky crags, drowning out the threatening rumble of thunder. “Cassius, what if she’s…”

Nerida reached back to grab her sister’s hand, squeezing tight. “Come on,” she said, already pulling back down the hall again. Her dark eyes were grim in a pinched face. “You know Cas is the only one who can reach her when she’s like this.”

“But—oh Maker—if she has Taran…”

“ _Come on_ ,” Nerida repeated, because there really was nothing else to say. If their sister had let the demons take her again, there was nothing anyone but Cassius _could_ do to coax her back to herself. And if she had gone far enough that she was willing to take Taran in her thrall…

Suddenly, the bright laughter he had heard seemed all the more ominous. Taran was five; plenty old enough to know when something was seriously _wrong_. Which meant that Josselyn had to be controlling the little boy, which meant she had crossed that final line, which meant…

“But _Nerida_ ,” Claire whimpered, even as she allowed herself to be tugged back to their rooms. Down the hall, other doors were closing. And, echoing the sick fear rising up from his gullet: “If Josselyn’s been taken again, then _who was that screaming_?”

Maker. He wished for the final time that he was young enough to run back to bed and bury his head under his pillow. He wished he didn’t have to go to the landing and find out just how far his twin sister had fallen. But Father was gone, and the older Trevelyan children were either dead, mad, or given to the Chantry—there was no one left _but_ him to see this through. So he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, tightened his grip on his sword, and forced himself to walk to the second floor landing, each step making the floorboards scream his presence.

There was no point hiding from Josselyn now.

The main entryway looked perfectly normal at first glance, cast as it was in darkness. He could see the double stairs leading down from the upper landing to the main foyer below. The front door was thrown open, letting in a violent wind. Outside, thunder rumbled and the first shush of rain swept across the sea. Everything seemed eerie in its familiarity.

And then lightning flashed, silhouetting a lithe figure making her way down to the rocky crags, a little boy clasped in her arms. And, directly on the landing directly below him, Cassius spotted the corpse of his _Tante_ staring at him from a growing halo of blood.

Darkness again.

He closed his eyes against the horror still imprinted on his lids—and yet, somehow, the sight of _Tante’s_ body was enough to leech away the rest of his fear. Who knew what had spurred Josselyn’s literal inner demons to lash out, but if she had lost control to them so utterly, then at least—at _last_ —his path was clear.

He had to kill his sister, or die trying.

Cassius retreated back to his room only long enough to grab his cloak, his sheath, and his shoes. On the way out, he snagged his blanket as well, bundling it in his arms as he moved through the dark manor to the first landing. Tante was sprawled across cold tile like a broken weathervane, her limbs snapped in horrifying twists and turns, her mouth agape, her eyes wide. He spared a moment to toss the blanket over her still form before slipping out into the stormy night, tugging the door shut behind him.

It closed with a hollow _snap_. Beyond the sill, the night was a rain-soaked grey; each howl of the wind reached his ears as a scream.

 _Maker_.

Cassius bound the sheathed sword about his waist and hurriedly wrapped himself in his cloak before setting off into the storm. Josselyn was already too far ahead for him to spot her, but he could make out footprints in the thick, sucking mud—four bare feet, and sometimes two when it was clear Josselyn paused to pick up Taran, blood already washed away from the shallow graves of their tred. She veered left as she neared the crags and Cassius blindly followed, head down against the driving rain, grim purpose making his blood rush cold.

 _I should have killed her years ago_ , he thought, grimacing against the rain that stung his face. _Tante is dead because I wasn’t strong enough to do it_.

 _Tante_ …and maybe Taran as well. But no, no, no point thinking that yet. There might still be time.

He caught sight of the trailhead mostly by chance, too turned around by the storm to be able to see clearly. It was a _torrent_ now, lightning forking wild over the Waking Sea, his cloak snapping madly around him. Cassius grabbed for slick rock and carefully began to make his way down the precarious passage—in the summer, in full sunlight when the winds were sweet and he had all the time in the world, this path to the sea caves was a challenging one. Now it was _suicide_ ; if Josselyn let Taran go even for a moment, their little brother would be lost amongst an avalanche of stone.

 _Andraste, guide us,_ Cassius prayed, picking his way down slowly slowly slowly.

A sudden wind nearly knocked him off his feet, but Cassius grabbed a sharply thrusting stone and dug in his heels, waiting it out. He had to tuck his face against his chest and breathe sharply through each wild burst, staring down at the white-crested waves below and telling himself those weren’t bodies being tossed amongst the swells.

Eventually, the wind slackened enough for him to move again, and he continued to carefully edge his way down, aware that each breath, each step, each snap of rain-soaked wind could be his last. And yet what felt like hours later, he was slipping past the last stones and stumbling into the mouth of the cave, wet through and aching. Each crash of waves against the sentinel stones sent a spray of white cascading around him; the cave ran deep and echoed with lonely drips of water off stalactites.

Beneath that hollow noise came the sound of Josselyn’s low, broken hum.

That damn _lullaby_.

Cassius moved carefully across the slick stones deeper into the cave. There was a fire going in the distance—small and homey despite everything. He remembered long years of creeping down here with his sisters to play. Every crag he passed, every small tidepool, was filled with the echo of those memories, ghosts creeping along in his wake.

His heel landed on an unsteady rock, sending it scattering…and all at once the lullaby stopped.

Cassius swallowed. “Josselyn,” he called, keeping his voice steady by will alone. He paused, then pressed forward when she didn’t answer, forcing himself to keep moving toward the fire. Cassius tried to make himself smile despite the horror of the evening—despite knowing what he would have to do—shoulders back and muscles as relaxed as he could manage as he stepped toward the warm glow. “Joss, are you here?”

He heard a serrated breath in the darkness and swore he could feel the demon’s eyes on him. _Pressing_ against his dim magicless awareness, sipping at the edges of his thoughts. He wondered, suddenly, whether Josselyn’s demon would try to possess _him_ —whether now that it had tasted blood, it would want a soldier’s arm to cut a dark swath through the rest of the Trevelyan clan. He tensed against that formless terror, skin crawling with cold and fear and _eyes in the dark,_ when—

When suddenly there was movement to his left—a dull grey flurry, coming _right at him_ —and Cassius drew his blade with a sharp cry, swinging toward the rushing form.

The little form of _Taran_ , all of five and sucking in a startled cry as Cassius’ blade nicked across his cheek. Cassius jerked back immediately, stopping the blow from following through—and the two brothers stared at each other, dark eyes on dark, breaths heaving in tandem.

Taran should have cried then. A normal boy would have. But perhaps being raised by Josselyn and the wilds had warped him, or perhaps her spell was still just now wearing off—whatever it was, Taran stared up the bared blade toward Cassius with an almost adult understanding, blood seeping down the round curve of his chubby cheek to join the spray of red droplets staining his nightrail.

 _Tante’s_ blood? Maker, probably.

“She told me to run,” Taran said. His voice was high and sweet, so _young_ and already so heartbreakingly grave that Cassius could barely stand it. “She said she’d kill me if I didn’t. Cassius…” He bit his lip as Cassius shakily lowered the blade. That had been close; that had been far, far too close. “Do you really think she would kill me?”

“No,” Cassius lied, reaching out to cup Taran’s good cheek. He stepped in and tugged Taran close in the same motion, heart beginning to break at the way the little boy crumpled against his side as if buckling under some terrible weight. “Josselyn would never hurt you. She loves you too much.”

Taran nodded against Cassius’s thigh, shoulders giving a sharp jerk; _crying_ at last, but crying so silently Cassius might never have known otherwise. One of his filthy little hands curled in Cassius’ nightshirt and it took everything Cassius had not to bundle Taran up in his arms and carry him away. Let the night have Josselyn, let the demons finally take her for good, let the storm wash in and drag her out to sea.

But there was no reassurance that the sea wouldn’t eventually give her _back_ , and if she’d finally weakened enough to let those _things_ kill…

Cassius cupped the back of Taran’s head, thumb running over the soft wisps of brown hair even as he looked grimly toward the fire. “I need you to be strong right now,” Cassius said. “I need you to guard the exit and make sure nothing gets in here.”

His little brother looked up, all of five and, _fuck_ , understanding him completely. “Don’t hurt her,” he said. “She doesn’t mean to be bad.”

“I know,” Cassius said, heart lurching. Wasn’t that what he’d been telling himself for years now, ever since Taran was born? Josselyn didn’t _mean_ to lose control. She didn’t _mean_ to lash out. She didn’t _mean_ any of this. And yet, and yet, and yet. “I won’t hurt her. Guard the exit,” he said again, giving Taran a little push. “I’ll be with you a minute.”

Taran took a step back, rubbing at his sore cheek, those tears on his lashes. But he nodded and turned away without another word of protest, disappearing into the dark.

Cassius watched him go for as long as he dared, counting the seconds as thunder rumbled and lightning crashed just outside the cave. Then, sucking in an unsteady breath, he turned back toward the fire and his waiting twin.

Josselyn was curled into a ball on the cold stone, staring into the flames. Her dark hair spilled around her the way it used to when she was a girl, only now there were ropes of white mingled with the brown, making her look far older than her not-yet-twenty years. She didn’t make a move at the sound of his footfall, though he could tell from the slow tensing of her body that she heard him.

Her eyes, from what he could see, were clear; that at least was a blessing, though Maker knew it would be easier to see this through if she had been completely gone.

“Joss,” Cassius murmured, moving around the fire to her side. He tugged his cloak off and draped it across her shoulders as he sat next to her, resting his sword at his side. She was dressed in her thin nightgown, white lawn drenched with rain and blood. Her thin body shuddered, though he couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the shock. Either way, his heart ached at the sight. “C’mere.”

Cassius reached down—slowly, carefully, _mindfully_ —and gathered up the bird-thin form of his twin, tugging her until she was curled within the warmth of his body. She turned her face, pressing her cheek against his chest, and he gently stroked his fingers through her hair. Calming her. Soothing away the unspooling horror as she cried just as silently as Taran had.

They sat there for what felt like a very long time, Josselyn’s body shaking with silent sobs: the Trevelyan twins unraveling together before a slowly dying fire.

Finally, gradually, Josselyn began to relax, fingers tangling in the front of his nightshirt. Her breath caught on a ragged gasp before she spoke. “Is she d-dead?”

Cassius pressed his cheek to the top of her head. “No,” he lied. “But the demon did hurt her. Did it hurt you?”

“Only when I pushed it back again.” She sighed and curled even closer. “It’s not going to leave me alone, Cassius. I’ve been fighting for so long to ignore them, but they’re always there, and this one— It’s not going to leave.”

“We’ll find a way to make it,” he said, knowing they wouldn’t, couldn’t. It was far too late for that. “We’ll find an apostate to teach you.”

“That’s what Taran says,” she murmured, meaning: that’s something only a child would believe.

Cassius kissed the crown of her head, resting his cheek against her once-lustrous hair. “Taran is very wise for a five-year-old,” he said. “You’ve been teaching him well.” Slowly, inch by inch, he reached for his sword. It was better if this happened fast—Josselyn wouldn’t fight him, he knew, but the things living inside her would.

“No,” Josselyn said. She gripped his shirt tighter, dragging her forehead against the wet material as she shook her head. “Maker only knows what he’s been learning from me. From all of us.” Josselyn looked up and Cassius went very still, blade in hand but still hidden. “You must make sure he escapes this place,” she said. “And you with him. This house, the Trevelyans…sometimes I think we’re cursed. We all say we’ll escape, and one by one we lose ourselves along the way.”

“Joss,” he began.

“ _Promise_ me, Cass,” she said. “Promise me you’ll both find a way.”

“You’re talking nonsense.” He knew he should promise—he should be willing to tell her anything—but there was an inevitability about being a Trevelyan. If his life had taught him anything, it was that there was no escaping the fates they had all been dealt. “Why don’t we head back to the house? We can change into something dry and sit up together to watch the storm.”

Josselyn studied his face for a long, long minute, frowning. Then, slowly, her shoulders drooped and she dropped her forehead against his shoulder, nodding. Her body felt heavy, listless. “All right,” she murmured. Then, “Maybe _Tante_ could make us some of that tea she’s always trying to push on us.”

 _Tante_.

He squeezed his eyes shut, carefully, carefully, carefully lifting the blade. “We could ask,” he said.

“We’ll stay up to watch the dawn. Taran will fall asleep long before then, but maybe one of the girls will want to join us.” She started to look up. “I’ve been thinking that I should tell them—”

And her eyes went wide—wide and fathomless and dark—mouth open and nothing but blood coming out. Cassius stared into his sister’s face as confusion and acceptance and fear and then _nothing_ , _nothing_ , crossed it. Her blood sprayed across his front, spattering the stone around them. Hot. So scaldingly _hot_ against the cold night air.

The sword clattered to the ground and he caught her against him as she spasmed. The wet suction of her breath was horrible to hear, but no worse than the way her fingers clenched at air, weakening, weakening, each spam smaller than the last as she began to slump heavy in his arms.

Cassius looked away from his dying twin, eyes hot with tears. The cave blurred, became a smudge of darkness and firelight, and they were children again—huddling together against the oncoming storm, whispering secrets and pretending they weren’t afraid. Only they weren’t, they _weren’t_ children, and she was gone, gone, _gone_.

He sucked in a breath, looking away from the staring eyes of his twin—and straight into the staring eyes of his baby brother. _Taran_ stood at the opposite end of the fire, stricken-pale and unblinking. Unmoving.

Cassius reached out. “Taran,” he said, but his extended hand was wet with _her_ blood, and he dropped it away when Taran took a staggering step back as if frightened of him—of _him_ , his savior, and not his demon-addled mage of a sister. “Taran, wait.”

“We could have saved her,” Taran said in that small voice, sounding at once too old and too young. Cassius should have been strong enough to do this years ago, before Josselyn could fill Taran’s head with such impossible thoughts. “We _should_ have saved her.”

“There was no saving her, Taran,” he said. Then, arms full of his dead sister, heart so cold he felt as if it had frozen in his chest, Cassius added without truly even wanting to: “There’s no saving any of them.”

Taran took another jerky step back. Another. “I’m,” he began, quavery, shaking so hard it was a wonder he hadn’t fallen. His eyes kept jerking down to Josselyn’s still, staring body, and Cassius—feeling a thousand miles away from his own head, shocky and frozen and distant—wondered what the little boy was seeing. Josselyn had been Cassius’ twin, but she had practically raised Taran from birth. What, he wondered, was it like to see your mother-figure murdered by your own brother? What kind of ways did a little boy’s brain have to process that horror?

“I’m not sorry,” Cassius said, monstrous in his own grief. Then, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You’re _wrong_ ,” was all his brother managed. And then he turned on his heel and sprinted off into the black—into the storm—leaving Cassius with his twin and his cave of painful memories and his shocked-frozen, grieving, _angry_ heart. He hated Taran in that moment. He hated himself. He hated everything and everyone that had pushed him toward this moment. He. Just. _Hated_. And he grieved. And he refused to weep.

He was too cold inside for that now.

Outside, the wind howled and lashed at the shore. The storm broke across the crags and moor and ramshackle home. Because _that_ was the night the demons left Trevelyan House for good…and a monster came to live in their place.


	4. Dorian

The knock on the door startled Dorian, for all he’d been waiting for it for what seemed like hours. He had a headache from the three glasses of wine he’d snitched the night before, and hadn’t been able to sleep much for all that he’d gone to bed feeling like he was going to float away at an errant breeze. He stood from where he’d been perched on the stool in front of his dressing table and crossed to open the door. 

“Lord Halward requires you, little peacock.” Lucia’s eyebrows ticked up when she took in his appearance -- neat, pressed, hair combed, all the things that Dorian, magical prodigy and family embarrassment wasn’t expected to be. “You remembered.” 

“Of course I remembered. It isn’t every day that a young man’s family spends a small fortune on lyrium to send him into the Fade for his yearly ritual failure, is it?” 

Lucia’s eyes narrowed just a touch, which was a victory, because it was the expression that Dorian associated with her being both irritated and confused. “Well, let’s get you to your humiliation punctually.” She gestured him out the door, and it was so like every other time they’d done this dance, this stupid farcical jig to find the one… girl in all the world that would make his lineage, his bloodlines, his talent and education , successful and _complete_ that Dorian burst out laughing. Now her nostrils were flaring. That meant anger as well as confusion. Good. 

The laughter continued as they walked through the breezeways and collonaded hallways of the estate, though by the the third turn Dorian had stopped and was frowning at her back. “This isn’t the way to Father’s study.” Every other time they’d attempted to find his _unum vinctum_ it had been in that familiar room, the light honey colored from the amber colored crystal that held the magelights, the dark wood warm, the carpet under his feet a thick woven silk that had been enchanted to subtly change colors with the time of day. As a tiny boy he’d loved that room more than anywhere else in the estate. Now it just meant failure. 

“No, it isn’t.” 

Very helpful. Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes. Nothing to do but follow her if she was going to be like that. He smoothed the drape of his robe and peered down the hallway that led toward the garden, wishing it were an escape. 

Not much had changed in the year he’d been gone. New slaves here and there among the faces that they passed. Maybe? He realized he honestly wasn’t even sure how many were housed in the Qarinus estate. Enough to keep everything spotlessly elegant, luxuriously formal, and most importantly seemly, dignified, and respectable. Well, excepting Dorian. Apparently no expenditure of wealth, no number of slaves, could quite shape him up to that standard. 

His parents hoped that there was one, though, one that would make him settle, less restless, less volatile, less likely to get dismissed by the magisters who appreciated his sparkling intellect and aptitude for magic but really didn’t want quite so much wit from their apprentices. Nor quite so much of what they saw as disregard for their own reputations. All of which was why he was home now, instead of in two months for the summer. Why there had been a banquet welcoming him last night, when everyone knew he’d been tossed out on his ear for _shredding_ the research of Avedius’ older apprentice publicly. Why he was being sent once more into the Fade to search for the voice in the dark. 

“You were from the south, weren’t you?” Dorian’s latest growth spurt meant he didn’t have to stretch quite so much to keep up with Lucia. The look she gave him at his question was no longer quite so… down the nose either. It was the only gratifying part of being sent home: finding he’d closed the gap between their heights by another few, vital inches. Before long she wouldn’t be intimidating at all. Not that Dorian was intimidated. “I mean, the Marches, yes? You weren’t born in Tevinter like Del?”

Lucia stopped so abruptly Dorian tripped over himself trying not to run into her. “You are being particularly loathsome today.” The muscle in her jaw twitched. He had certainly made her furious. “Nevarra.” Her eyebrow rose. “Why?” 

“You’re just different than him. Different than most _vincta_ I’ve met. And since mine is probably a Marcher, I thought you’d know how it felt when you--” Dorian broke off, a chill walking up his spine, a thousand prickling legs of apprehension at the look she gave him. 

“The Mortalitasi of Nevarra do not keep _vincta_.” Lucia’s mouth seemed to bite the word. “They have Voices. I did not understand the difference when your father’s offer came to my family. And now I do. If you ever find your Marcher I expect you will break their heart as well.” She turned again and led him through an archway and down the stairs toward the laboratory that Father kept below. 

Voice. Dorian had heard talk about such things. Mostly snickering among apprentices or sneering from adults. It was definitely not polite conversation, unless one were mocking the vulgarity of the south. 

There had even been one collection of ridiculous tales, written in Antiva or maybe Rivain that had made the round among the apprentices at his second placement. It had been discovered and burned, but not before they had all read some story about a lady knight and a tower with a mage boy locked inside it, caged by demons, with dreams and singing, and a kiss that banished the darkness. It had been absurd. And perverse. He’d laughed, revolted, with the rest of the youths, imagining Lucia and Father… no. Absolutely _not_.

But Lucia’s face had been stone when she spoke of a broken heart. Was that truly what southerners believed? Dorian’s scalp felt hot, palms sweaty, as he considered her words, each step down the stone stairwell into the lower cellars echoing like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own. 

Dorian hadn’t spent a great deal of time in the laboratory, but there wasn’t much time to peer around curiously at the apparatus on various benches, the shelves that held books his fingers itched to pry open, because his attention was arrested by the large sigil that had been painted on the circle of polished black basalt that the room centered on, and his father standing beside it. 

“Dorian. Thank you for being prompt.” His father’s voice held a warmer note than he’d expected, and he extended his hands as Dorian drew close, palms falling onto his shoulders. “We’re trying something different today.” 

“Goody?” The direct gaze was uncomfortable, as was Lucia’s presence. Dorian had truly hoped to shuffle in, swill the lyrium, bumble around the Fade for a few hours, and then go back to bed to hide from the frustration (Father) and pity (Mother) that inevitably came. But instead there were sigils and ritual chambers, and blessed Maker, he couldn’t help the gooseflesh that prickle of fear was raising despite the very comfortable temperature of the room. 

“Quite.” His father’s mouth thinned as he shook his head, hands turning Dorian toward the prepared floor. “Sit in the center. Lucia, bring the draught.” 

Despite the runework being unfamiliar, Dorian could feel the power present in the lines, the way it scraped under his skin as he stepped carefully across. In the middle he settled, crossing his legs and frowning at the crystal cup that Lucia approached him with. “Father? What is all this?” The swirling blue within the delicate chalice made it hard to focus on anything else, but Dorian kept his eyes up, watching his father’s face as he seemed to consider his only son with the faint frown he might use examining a particularly thorny political mess. 

“It’s an enchantment to keep you in the Fade longer than usual. Similar to the Harrowing rituals that the southern Circles use.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It will give you a bit longer to look.” 

“Longer to look.” Dorian’s ears were hot as he looked down into the cup. Because apparently his attempts to find his intended bond were so disappointing that Halward Pavus had spent double the usual fortune on lyrium to make sure Dorian didn’t come back without something to tell. 

“Don’t sulk, Dorian. Drink the lyrium. Not everyone can be brilliant at everything.” 

Even if that was what he’d been bred to be. Dorian’s genealogy tutors had driven that home into his mind with such brutal repetition it was the only thing he was sure of. Perfect mage, perfect mind, brilliant at _everything_. He drank the lyrium in three huge swallows, his teeth chattering with the sizzling cold as he set the cup down. He blinked once, and again, and the third time his eyes remained closed, listening to his heartbeat echo in the darkness as he was dragged from the waking world to the Fade. 

The garden. Dorian had expected to find himself in the laboratory, but instead it was the water garden with its draped green silk shot with gold hanging in long falls from the sunward arbor to provide additional shade. Of course there was no sun here, and the sound of the water flowing through the fountain sounded more like the hollow rattle of dice in a cup. Close, but not real. 

Nothing here was real. A good reminder. Unless he could find the voice that should be calling for him. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on what should be an instinctive step forward in the direction of that part of his own power that had been inconveniently stored elsewhere, in someone he was destined to break the heart of, apparently. He tried, desperately, as he always did to imagine her, but it felt just as wrong as every other time. As always he couldn’t “hear” anything. “What a bloody waste of time.”

 _It usually is_. The strange sibilance of the voice made Dorian’s skin prickle and his eyes snap open. On the far side of the fountain, settling onto one of the chaises, was a… well a demon. _Especially when you refuse to look for what you want._

“Um?” Dorian’s mouth had dried looking at the… creature. It was… well. His cheeks stung with the blush in them and he looked away, toward the shifting silks of the curtain. Naked. The demon was naked. Tall, skin shifting from a pale lavender to dark purple, with horns that curved up and back from the crest of its brow like a Qunari. Copper-coin eyes, with slitted pupils, had caught on Dorian’s for just a moment before he’d looked away. Muscular. Strong. None of the breasts he’d seen so specifically rendered in the primers on the Fade he’d read. No. This desire demon was definitely, _definitely_ male. 

The sound of it’s laughter, a chuckle that he could feel like the tips of its claws skimming over his skin, did nothing to reduce the panicky flush over his whole body. It made everything feel too tight, too heavy, particularly his clothes. Rough where before the silk had been soft, constricting where things had been comfortably fitted. His stomach twisted even while he tried to ignore the low coal of… something in his gut.

Demon. It was a demon. This is what they did. Confused. Distracted. Why was it even here? Did the ritual his father had performed remove the safeguards that had always kept them away before on these ventures?

 _Dorian…_ Its voice was somewhere between a sing-song and a purr. 

“Yes? I mean… hello. I… look this is awkward but I really wasn’t expecting to see any of you-- your kind? Here. Especially not…” He flapped a hand in its general direction. “So much of your--” He broke off to clear his throat, back of his neck hot as it laughed again. 

_I’ve been waiting for five years to get to talk to you, dear boy. Won’t you sit down?_

Dorian flicked a glance over to the demon, finding it reclining, displaying all of its… everything with one leg bent and an elbow resting atop it. His eyes snapped shut and he breathed hard, through his nose. Desire demon. Male desire demon. This wasn’t what was supposed to be happening right now. He was supposed to be finding his _unum vinctum_ , the final key to his birthright and the Pavus legacy that represented generations of investment culminating in _him_. As heavy as it was, that birthright was his. 

_You know, it could be that there isn’t one for you to find. Many mages’ little Voices die before they’re ever found._ The use of that word drew Dorian’s eyes up again, focusing on the demon’s face. _Or it could be you’ve spent all these years looking for what you think you should find, and not what you want. Maybe I can help with that?_ The demon shimmered in a way that made Dorian feel like he was going blind and instead of it’s mockery of human features, too beautiful to be real, Theo was looking back at him with his dark eyes over the rim of a wine glass that hadn’t been there before. 

The flush of shame that climbed Dorian’s cheeks stung like sinking into water far too hot for the bath. Avedius’ apprentice was terribly handsome, had always been painfully so when he smiled at Dorian like that, as if the two of them were the keepers of some precious secret. When that secret, those words whispered with soft lips against Dorian’s ear, the taller boy pressing into him so fleetingly, no longer seemed soft and sweet, had sharpened into a knife to be used against him, Dorian had done the only thing he could: destroyed Theo’s credibility as thoroughly as he’d been able. 

“Ah. N-no. No thank you.” Listening to demons was never a good idea, especially not when they were right about things. Things that made one vulnerable, _different_ , things that must never be shared. 

“No? Hm. Don’t be boring, Pavus.” Theo -- no -- the demon grinned at him. “If you’d prefer to do something other than talk, well, why not. It isn’t as if there’s anyone out there for you to find.” The demon sipped its wine again. “At least no one suitable. Won’t that be phenomenal. Your parents are going to send you to Seheron when they find out.” 

“Find out what?” Oh, Dorian knew what. Because all this insinuating and hinting… he’d have to be an idiot to keep pretending he didn’t know what the demon meant. The reason his attempts at imagining the girl who was to be his _unum vinctum_ had always felt so wrong. The reason a desire demon would appear to him as Theo. Maker save him. 

The laugh was Theo’s cruelest. The one that had convinced Dorian that he had to push back or be ruined. “Precious.” Another sip of wine and Dorian was beginning to wonder just how long he was going to have to stand here and listen to the thing be smug and insolent. 

“I am. Thank you. And have a lovely whatever time it is for you. Good day!” Dorian’s voice cracked as he chirped his dismissal, turning his back on the idyll behind him. If it followed what would he do? He couldn’t _fight_ it. Could he? 

That cruel, cruel laughter chased him as he fled. 

But where had he fled? The step he’d taken had twisted the Fade around him, a sliding lurch that made his stomach roll. It was an intolerable annoyance to feel things like nausea or the urge to sneeze when your mind was the only thing that was real here. He’d read several philosophical papers about the autonomic systems of the body and the Fade and they’d all been about as deep as a mud puddle. 

Or the tidepool that he found himself standing in at the mouth of a sea cave. 

The cliff above him seemed to rise impossibly high in the false night, a winding stair carved into the shining surface of slick rock. The roar of the waves was familiar, along with the clammy air. He would have bet Mother’s entire jewelry box that it was the same cliff he’d watched that crazy mage girl throw a baby doll made of bones off all those years ago. 

Had she drawn him here again? He shuddered, not looking forward to whatever macabre nonsense the demons were whispering to her this time. Maybe he could just walk away. 

The step he intended to take away from the cave mouth, toward the cliff path that he would have to be a goat to have any hope of climbing, took him the other way. How? 

Another step away. Closer yet. 

“Oh bloody… Well I _know_ it’s not _her_ so why am I here?” he shouted. His voice echoed back at him off the craggy rocks, mixing with the sound of the ceaseless beating waves. The nervous churn of his stomach wasn’t all due to the thought of more demons. He could feel the way it pulled at him. Led him despite his intentions, his fear, here. 

Well. Maybe it was time. Time to face whatever it was that the blasted desire demon thought he wanted. Time to admit it. 

It. 

He dragged the heels of his hands over his eyes and then made himself stand straight, chin up, and walked with all the dignity he could muster with his boots full of seawater toward the yawning opening in the black rock cliff. 

The tang of salt bit the air in a way that Dorian didn’t expect from the Fade. It meant he had bumped up against someone else’s dreamscape. And based on the pull that guided his path, it was his _unum vinctum_. He rubbed at his nose, squinting into the dark. The deep shadows of the cave seemed to stretch impossibly far back and in the far, far distance was a tiny golden light, the smallest bubble of warmth but that was where he was going, wasn’t it? Traversing this terrifying cave that was like the maw of a dragon left lolling open to eat the unwary to get to that faint flicker of certainty. 

And Dorian had gotten so used to living without it. Willfully perhaps. After so many years of blank boredom when he entered the Fade, small flickers of recognition when looking into faces of what seemed like a dozen strangers, to finally _feel_ the pull toward what he was told was his, but he wasn’t sure he wanted? It was hard to put one foot in front of the other, each step trembling as it set gingerly down on the slick rock, splashed through a puddle trapped in a dip in the uneven ground.

“Hello?” His voice quavered, cracking high for a moment, and he cleared his throat. The blush that crept into his cheeks was foolish -- his _unum vinctum_ wouldn’t be able to hear him, wouldn’t know that his voice was sprung with nerves and puberty. He was close enough to the bubble of light that he should be able to see her -- him -- he winced with the turn of his thoughts each time he stumbled back to the demon’s insidious whispers. 

It claimed he couldn’t find what he was seeking because he wasn’t looking for what he wanted. What Dorian _wanted_ was for the creeping fear that he was different enough to make his parents shun him to go away. What he _wanted_ was for his father to be proud that he’d finally found the last piece of the puzzle that would make him a great man. What he _wanted_ had always been to be who he was supposed to be. 

He had never once wanted a small boy, alone in dark, the light of the fire putting glints of gold and copper in his hair as it fell in a tumble into his eyes. 

Dorian didn’t have words for this. Not in the common tongue, not in Old Tevene, not in the scraps of qunlat he’d learned. How could words describe what it felt like to look at the soul of someone he had never seen and find that suddenly it all made so much damned sense? Why he was different. Why he’d wanted Theo. Why his parents were never, ever going to be wholly pleased with him. 

The answer to every question he’d ever had about himself were answered in the rich, warm brown of those half-hidden eyes. 

“Oh.” Dorian’s feet tangled together as he tried to hurry closer, to find some way to bundle a blanket around the shivering child, to protect him from whatever had made him hide here in the dark. Help. Dorian wanted to _help_. He stumbled, caught himself and stood there with his knees quaking in time with his galloping heart. He needed to breathe. This was his _unum vinctum_ , his intended bondslave, and… and he was going to have to… “ _Kaffas_.” 

From his place by the fire he could see that the boy -- a child, far younger than Dorian -- was scooping up handfuls of sand, red, no -- blood? It was both in the way of dreams and he was filling a sack with, endlessly, hands stained. “He didn’t mean it, Josselyn. We’ll fix it. You’ll get better again. Cassius is sorry.” The sack had become a dress, stuffing those handfuls of red into the neck. The snap of the fire brought the boy’s eyes up, face filthy, tears running tracks through the rust on his cheeks. 

“Who are you?” Dorian’s voice broke again, this time with tears that had thickened his throat. He couldn’t leave the boy here, alone. _Alone_. The air around them was bitter with it. “Where are you? Think, Dorian. Marches, yes? Okay. Josselyn. I don’t... “ The boy began humming as he went back to his work, and Dorian recognized it, had been dreaming it half the nights since his first dose of lyrium had sent him to look. “Taran. Are you Taran?” He was the right age if the doll that she’d thrown into the waves somehow represented the boy he was looking at now. “She was singing to you? Your mad apostate… what? Sister? Maker’s breath.” Taran, Josselyn, Cassius. Three names. The Free Marches? How would Dorian ever find them? 

The sea and the salt and this cold, clammy cave. Wrong. All of it. He could make sure he was safe, warm, no longer alone.

Dorian paced on the far side of the fire. There were agents who did this work -- found the far astray _unum vinctum_ of the wealthy and powerful, brought them back to Tevinter, to be… bound. Collared. Dorian’s legs went unsteady and he sat, hard, Lucia’s flinty eyes as she spoke of _heartbreak_ , accusing in his mind. 

“Oh.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. A boy. A small, lost, lonely boy, with tragedy in his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard and then sat up straighter, hands on his knees, staring right at this boy who Dorian only wanted to protect from whatever wicked, hateful thing had made him look so desperately alone. 

But how could he ever do that? In Tevinter, where an _unum vinctum_ of the same gender as a mage was a cause for whispers, for sly comments, for continuous torment to prove that there was no overly familiar attachment, nothing _aberrant_ there. 

Dorian’s hands clenched into fists where he pressed them against his knees, watching the endless motions of those filthy red hands, the stubborn set of the child’s jaw. As if whoever he was talking to, whoever he had lost, could be saved if he just _wanted_ it hard enough. Could the light that was keeping the darkness at bay in his dreams weather everything terrible that Tevinter could throw at a child. Could Dorian? 

Because there would be whispers. There would be talk. There would be innuendo and blatant accusations. There would be assumptions and knowing looks. Liberties taken. Offenses made. He thought he might vomit for a moment and this time he didn’t bother with grousing about not even having a stomach here. He would have to _let_ things happen to the boy in front of him, or he would lose everything. 

For the first time Dorian could see, sharp and cruel and cold to his bones, how Tevinter would break him. Break them. He looked up at the shadows that swallowed the ceiling. Maker’s grace, he was a coward on top of every other thing, wasn’t he? 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re safer there. With your… dress full of blood.” The bark of laughter that came out of Dorian’s mouth was half-sob, definitely bordering on hysterical. “And I’m safer too.” 

He let himself shiver, sitting in a puddle, skin crawling all over with the cold and the prickle of lyrium, as Taran eventually faded away-- waking or wandered on to a hopefully more pleasant dream. Dorian didn’t know. Wouldn’t look. He… he couldn’t. Never again. He would tell his parents he was incomplete, the Fade silent and cold like he’d been told happened to those whose _vincta_ died before they were found. He’d been visited by a demon, after all. 

Those types of dreams would only get worse. He could already feels the eyes peering curiously from the cracks that had formed in Taran’s dream after he’d gone. Copper eyes, covetous and full of malice, that knew the shape of Dorian’s Voice. 

And now it was his job to keep them both safe.


	5. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Brief descriptions of vomit (ew, I know) and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> This scene dovetails with chapter 47 of Fire Walk with Me.

He made it a quarter way down the beach before his legs finally gave out.

It happened suddenly, with no fanfare, no chance to catch a fourth (fifth, ninth, twentieth) wind and soldier on. One moment Fenris was struggling against the driving rain and the next…

…the next he was slumped across rock-strewn sand, the crashing waves dragging at his heels, threatening to pull him back out to sea. Would the captain who’d smuggled him out of Kirkwall even bother to fish him out of the riptide now that his coin had been paid?

 _Bah_. What did it matter anyway?

Fenris closed his eyes, breathing in slow, irregular pants—counting each heartbeat as it lurched against his chest. It was late, early, _something_. His muscles ached and his head spun and his heart, his heart, his heart was jagged glass. Shattered, cutting. Useless. Lightning forked overhead and thunder rumbled in warning. A battle cry, echoing off cave walls. The wet drag of the Deep Roads sinking icy fingers into his bones. The night lit up with flickers of lyrium and he—

No. No. _Lightning_ , not lyrium. A storm off the coast. Maker, he was drifting, bleeding time and energy and the will to keep going bit by bit by bit. Soon there’d be nothing left.

He’d started out with so little, after all.

Fenris groaned and huddled around himself, so cold he was no longer shivering. Bare fingers dug into wet sand and salt water filled his lungs—a wave, crashing around him, over him. Fenris squeezed his eyes tight and barely found the strength to turn his face away. His arms were too weak to push himself up. His legs were too weary to hold him even if he managed to stand. His will—always the strongest part of him—was barely a flicker inside his chest.

 _This_ , Fenris thought, letting the wave tug him toward the churning sea, _is as good a place to die as any_.

The thought would have made him angry just a few short weeks ago. He had faced too much, fought too hard, lived through everything Danarius thought to throw at him; he _would not_ give up, no matter the provocation. And yet here, now, in a world without Aidan Hawke, he could only sink into the bleak inevitability of death. Ready in a way he’d never been before. Eager, almost, to face the end.

He hunched around the thought, wave crashing over his broken body. His tongue felt thick and sour in his mouth, the wine long since dried on his tongue. He wished he had another bottle now. _That_ was how he’d choose to go. Laying on his back and watching the sky, throat filled with something deep and red and—

A warm hand clasped his shoulder.

“By the Maker,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Are you all right?”

 _No_ , he wanted to snarl, wanted to jerk away. _No, leave me be. Leave me here_. He didn’t have the strength even to protest as he was caught by the pits and dragged a few feel out of the surf. His deadened legs were left to catch each crashing wave, but now he could cough and hack up sea water, angrily blinking away grit. His sight was bleary, night nothing more than shadows lit by the occasional flicker—but those hands were on him again, soothing his back, pushing back his hair, helping him turn over and sit up, braced by a warm body.

“That was a stupid question,” the boy said, one arm looping around Fenris’s waist to keep him from toppling over. “You’re half-drowned; of course you’re not all right. Here. Here, catch your breath. It’s going to be better now.”

Fenris curled his lip back, only to be caught in a hacking cough. He tried to yank away, tried to curl back around his misery, but the boy held on with surprising strength. “Steady there,” he said. “Steady. You need to find your bearings again.”

“Do not,” Fenris began, turning to _glare_. His words felt heavy in his mouth, tongue thick. He reached up to shove the boy away, but his arms wouldn’t obey him—though whether from drink or cold or the creeping promise of the void, he couldn’t say. _Close_. He had been _so close_. “Do _not_ …”

The boy’s brows drew together. He was young, barely out of childhood, though already built with broad shoulders and a strong chest that hinted at a warrior’s muscle to come. Golden-brown hair was plastered to his forehead and warm brown eyes watched Fenris with tangible concern—the way Aidan might have looked at him. He had the same eyes, even if they were a different color. The same gentle energy. The same—

Fenris turned his head and vomited a heady mix of wine and sea water.

“Okay,” the boy said, quickly leaning him forward so the bile could spatter across wet sand. “Okay. Okay, I’m going to assume that’s good. Just…get it out of you. Right?” His hand rubbed a soothing circle against Fenris’s back, the way a mother might her babe. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, ser.”

He gripped the boy’s other wrist, letting that be the anchor he needed as he lost the contents—the lining—the void-taken dissolved _pieces_ of his stomach, practically. His whole body burned.

Overhead, lightning forked and the wind changed directions, driving rain toward their exposed faces. Fenris turned his head, spitting and sputtering, miserable. “Let me know when you think you can stand,” the boy said. “There’s a cave nearby. I have some potions there. Once we get some elfroot in you, you should start feeling better. What were you doing out in the storm? No,” he added quickly, “don’t answer that; don’t try to talk. I’m sorry, I just haven’t seen someone who isn’t my brother in _ages_. Here.”

One hand slid down Fenris’s spine, and the boy caught his arm, gently slinging it over those improbably broad shoulders. He tipped his head, waiting for Fenris’s jerky nod, before slowly rising—slowly slowly slowly bringing Fenris with him. Fenris’s head swam with the change and his legs shook, but he grit his teeth against a second wave of nausea and held on, refusing to let himself collapse to the sand again.

He was alive; he might as well deal with that while it was still true.

The boy’s arm slid around his waist, holding most of his weight. He was _strong_ , Fenris noted absently; Aveline and Donnic would have been glad to have a boy like him training for the guard. His cheeks were still round and ruddy with youth, but there was a light fuzz of hair on his chin, and the way he set his jaw and began half-carrying, half-dragging Fenris down the beach spoke of deep wells of determination.

Perhaps he’d mention the boy to Aveline when he returned to Kirkwall.

(Aidan was dead; he was never going home again.)

Fenris stumbled, legs giving out beneath him, but the boy caught him before they could topple over. He grunted and used his body to keep Fenris from collapsing, adjusting his grip so that he was carrying even more of his weight. “It isn’t far,” the boy promised. “We just need to make it to those rocks and everything will be okay.”

He didn’t bother to look. _Those rocks_ may as well have been _the depths of the void_ for all he cared. His head was too full of memory, of regret, of rending, crushing, debilitating anguish— _loss_ , and _guilt_ , burning in his gut, making him—

Fenris retched again, barely turning his face in time. His stomach was empty of everything but wine-tinted bile, and it _burned_ as it filled his throat. He gagged at the choking sob that wanted to rise out of him and held on to his unexpected lifeline as fiercely as he could.

The boy was full-on carrying him now, shouldering his weight with remarkable ease, despite the telltale wheeze of his breath. He kept murmuring quietly, things like, “It’s okay,” and “almost there”, though Fenris couldn’t be sure which of them he was reassuring. It didn’t matter. He kept his head down, shoulders slumped forward, and allowed himself to be saved once more, whether he willed it or no.

The drag of stone brought him back from a bleary half-unconsciousness, followed by the boy’s grunt as he hauled Fenris up a rocky outcropping. The waves were still crashing on the beach, eating up the shore (swallowing the spot he’d already half-chosen as his grave), but the moment the driving rain was cut off by rock overhead was a revelation, and Fenris dragged in a relieved breath, letting his head fall back.

“Alive,” he said, voice a croak.

“And I’m determined to keep you that way.” The boy took a deep breath and hauled Fenris up against his side for one last, herculean push. He carried him into the depths of the cave, moving with the sure-footed grace of someone who was all too familiar with the landscape. It struck Fenris as strange—this whole blasted, benighted coast struck Fenris as strange. It was dark and miserable and violent and grey. How, _how_ had this boy stumbled out of a place like that, all warm empathy that left a curdling hole in his gut?

Fenris wet his lips and forced his feet back under him, stumbling with the boy the last little bit. He spotted a firepit some ways back, just visible in the flashes of lightning through irregularly fitted rock. “Who,” he began, voice rusty.

The boy looked at him. “Taran,” he said. “Taran Trevelyan. Come on, just a few steps more.”

He helped Fenris into a careful seat of smoothed stone. There were bundles of clothing here, Fenris noticed. Crates filled with what looked like bottles, some half-full, most long empty. He thought he saw the bluish glow of lyrium in one as Taran moved a few of the bottles aside, sorting through the empties before pulling out a mostly-full vial of elfroot. “Here,” Taran said with a relieved smile. He uncorked it with his thumb, then held it out to Fenris—an offering. A lifeline.

_Take this if you want to live._

But…did he?

“Where,” Fenris began, not reaching for the vial. He cleared his throat. “Where is this?” The captain hadn’t said. He’d simply dumped Fenris on the first bit of shore after the coin had run out. It didn’t look like Tevinter, but other than that, Fenris couldn’t say.

Taran sat on the bit of stone next to him, still holding the bottle—patiently waiting. “You’re in Ostwick,” he said. “Of the Free Marches. Did you…did your boat capsize?”

 _Ostwick_. So he hadn’t made it so very far from Kirkwall after all.

Good. Maker take him, but he was _glad_ he hadn’t managed to flee far. It felt…damned wrong to be away from the city that had become home to him. It felt damned wrong to be away from Aidan, even if Aidan no longer lived. At least, if he had remained in Kirkwall, he could have been near the place where they had almost been happy.

(And _venhedis_ , but that was a miserable thought. He needed to stop.)

“Ostwick,” Fenris repeated, testing the word on his tongue. He looked down at his hands, beginning to finally shiver again. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He thought he remembered that mage…remembered _Anders_ …saying that once. It meant his body wasn’t so damaged by the cold that it was shutting down.

“Here,” the boy, Taran, said again. He lifted the vial, earnest eyes on Fenris’s face. “You need to drink this so I can get a fire going. You’ll freeze if I don’t.”

He should tell him to leave off, to let him be. What was there for him here—in _Ostwick_ , close enough to Kirkwall that it would be a constant ache? And yet when Fenris looked up to meet those warm honey-brown eyes in that young face, the sharp words died on his tongue. He felt his heart give an unexpected lurch.

“ _Fine_ ,” he said, reaching out to blindly grab the vial. He threw his head back and swallowed it in one go, letting the familiar herbal tang drown out the burn of wine and bile and sea salt. Letting the magic coil through his frozen limbs and bloom hot and hopeful in his chest—healing him in every way but the one that mattered.

Taran gave a little nod, satisfied, and moved to begin stacking firewood (carefully piled under oilcloth to protect it from the damp air) in the remains of the firepit. He worked quickly, efficiently, sparking tinder and flint on a small pile of wood shavings before leaning close to blow the first curl of smoke into a flame.

Fenris watched the boy work, empty vial held within trembling fingers. His stomach wanted to protest again, but the elfroot was taking care of that, too—coiling in his belly, mending what ailed him, bringing him back from some sort of precipice.

 _But where will I be when it’s done?_ Fenris thought, staring down at the pitted rock. _Where will I go?_ The whole wide world was open to him, and there was nowhere he wanted to be. Nothing he wanted to see. Noone he wanted to become.

He was through with running, but he couldn’t very well stay here, could he?

“Why not?” Taran asked, looking up from the fire. It was finally catching, sparks lifting toward the high ceiling as warm light filled the cavern. It caught the boy’s face in half-shadow, and yet even that only made him look more golden, more earnest. He straightened as Fenris stared at him, startled, half wondering if he’d stumbled into a blood mage’s lair. “You were talking under your breath,” Taran added. “In Tevene. Sorry. I should have told you I knew the language.”

“What do you know Tevene for?” he demanded.

Taran shrugged a shoulder and sat back on another bit of smooth rock. He dropped his elbows against his knees, letting awkwardly long, gangly arms dangle between his thighs. “Cassius—my older brother—figured I should know the major languages. He’s had me learning them since as long as I can remember. Though _why_ when the only person I ever talk to these days is him, I don’t know.”

He looked down with a crooked, yet somehow pained-looking smile. “My sisters used to teach me, when they still lived with us. They’ve all flown by now, but I guess the habit stuck, so I try to teach myself Nevarran in the evenings. It’s…” Taran made a face, looking up again. “Have you ever tried to read Nevarran?”

He didn’t bother telling the boy he’d never been able to read, period. “No,” he said.

“It feels like squeezing your brain through the eye of a needle. I swear there’s got to be a trick to it, but I haven’t learned it yet. Do you want a blanket?”

Taran stood before Fenris could answer, going to one of the stacked crates. He came back with an old and patched—though wonderfully clean—blanket, barely hesitating before spreading it over Fenris’s shoulders. Fenris froze, ready to flinch or recoil at the unfamiliar touch…then relaxed by slow, startled degrees when he realized it didn’t bother him. If anything, it felt _good_ to be fussed over. Cared about.

He had grown used to the feeling, after all.

Fenris turned his face away, heart reflexively clenching at the thought, a fresh wave of grief and shame and guilt overtaking him. He tightened his hands into fists, barely aware of the tinkling sound of breaking glass or the way the boy dropped down beside him, one arm going around his shoulders as if Taran could somehow hold him together by the force of his will alone.

“Hey,” he said in a quiet voice, present and yet not intruding on Fenris’s grief. Just that, just one word, as if reminding Fenris he wasn’t alone. “Hey. Hey.”

Fenris closed his eyes, lashes burning with tears, and growled, “I need to keep moving.”

“All right,” Taran responded easily enough. But then he added in a lower voice, “But—forgive me if I’m wrong—I’m getting the sense you don’t know where you’re going. _And_ ,” he added quickly, as if afraid he’d overstepped, “we’re an awful long way from anywhere you might want to be.”

 _That isn’t true_ , he almost said, thinking of Kirkwall; thinking of that bit of drowned sand where he could have died. He felt like he was walking a thin line balanced between the two—any sudden gust might be enough to send him toppling over one way or the other. “I cannot stay here,” he said again. And, because it seemed the boy would once more ask why, he added, “I do not know you.”

“Yes you do,” Taran said with a warm laugh. “I told you: Taran Trevelyan, from Ostwick. I learn languages from old books and practice my swordwork on fraying dummies and come here to—”

He stopped abruptly.

Fenris lifted his head, taking in the half-empty bottles of elfroot and lyrium, the piles of clean rags and carefully mended clothing, the signs of people having passed through not too long ago. “You come here to help _mages_ escape.”

He meant the word to come out curdled, the way it always had before, but for some reason, he couldn’t seem to find that old vitriol. Magic had ruined his life once upon a time, but it had also given him so very much. If he had let himself just reach out and take it, he could have had— He could have— “Apostates? Or runaways?”

Taran flushed and pulled back. “I’d rather not say?” he tried.

But Fenris’s gaze was fixed on his face. “You said it is just you and your brother,” he snapped. “Does he help you?” He could read the negative in the way Taran flinched. “Does he even _know_ what you are doing?” Again, that little flinch.

Fenris sat back with a hiss. “You are a fool,” he said. “Barely out of boyhood and meddling in dangerous affairs that have been the death of men twice your age. _Venhedis_ , do you even know what you are doing?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Taran said, suddenly looking up. Those honey-gold eyes caught the light. “The right bloody thing, okay?”

 _Fool_ , Fenris thought, but the word was tinged with unexpected affection—because that could have just as easily been Aidan speaking. This boy had a bleeding heart that _was_ going to get him killed, and oh, but he could see so much of his Voice there. What’s more…surely Taran’s work was helping other mages find _their_ Voices. That was what Anders was always saying they wanted, wasn’t it? To be free of control and, and bondage. To have a say in their own lives. To be able to search out their Voices wherever they might be.

To bond with the other halves of themselves. To be happy.

And here he was, after having railed against Anders for his bloody idealism, after having raged at the idea of the Circles being broken and mages being allowed to walk free—stumbling upon a mage underground and feeling, for the first time, like a part of him understood.

Or at least, that a part of him wanted to understand. He would want to find his Voice again, too, if he only had the chance.

“Very well,” Fenris said.

Taran blinked, straightening. “I’m sorry?”

“I will stay.” It seemed…right…somehow…that if he was going to keep living, he’d devote his time to some sort of penance. Helping _mages_ on their way to freedom was exactly the sort of recompense Aidan might have asked of him, if he had managed to survive Fenris’s love. “You need to be shown how to be smarter about this, or you will have a short, miserable life.”

“Wait, really?” Taran said—then chuffed a laugh. “Not that I’m trying to talk you out of it, because, I mean, you obviously need someplace to stay and _I_ obviously need someone to talk to, if I’ve taken to fishing new friends out of the ocean and all. Convincing Cassius may be tricky, but…”

Fenris held up a hand. “You said you train yourself on broken practice dummies,” he said. “I will train you instead. Even this Cassius must see the logic in that.”

“Maybe,” Taran said slowly, as if he doubted Fenris could convince his brother, but Fenris wasn’t concerned. Once he had his strength back, he’d knock this _Cassius_ on his ass a few times; that would be enough of a test of his qualifications. “And…you really will help me? With the mage underground?”

 _Mage underground_. Maker, but the boy was too hopelessly earnest. “I will help,” he said curtly, refusing to be even the slightest bit warmed when Taran grinned. “Maybe you will learn not to be such an idealistic fool along the way.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Taran said, laughing, and the sound would never be enough to mend a fraction of Fenris’s broken heart, but at least here, sitting at the hub of a mage underground, knowing that he had _some_ semblance of a purpose in the face of endless, aching loss…a small part of Fenris relaxed its guard.

And a tentative friendship was born.


	6. Feynriel

Tevinter parties were the _worst_.

Not that Feynriel had much basis for comparison. There was scarce little to celebrate in Kirkwall’s alienage. Life was hard, and while the occasional festival swept through the cobbled streets, most elves were too poor and too exhausted and too…too everything to pay old Dalish holidays much mind. Besides, Feynriel hadn’t been welcome at _those_ either; nothing made usually-friendly neighbors more hostile to outsiders than festival commemorating the human conquest of their ancestors. And with Feynriel’s half-elven features, he never could be anything _but_ an outsider.

Still. Even if he’d been raised in some Hightown estate and went to galas every night—even if he had so much experience that he was as bored and feckless as any noble—Feynriel was comfortable assuming that Tevinter parties would _still_ be the absolute bloody worst.

Mostly because they were Tevinter.

And all of Tevinter could bite his skinny ass.

“You are the dreamer, are you not?”

The elegantly dressed woman was shorter by half a hand, and yet she somehow still managed to look down her aristocratic nose at him. Feynriel shuffled in place, fighting the urge to tug at the single sleeve of his ridiculous robe. Little bits and bobs sewn into the so-dark-a-green-it-was-nearly-black fabric caught the candlelight with every nervous twitch. If he wasn’t careful, he’d look like a particularly nervous armored nug. “Yes,” he said.  Usually this was when he was expected to rattle off his bona fides so the other mage had an excuse to do the same—it was all about status in Tevinter, and nothing made them happier than whipping it out and comparing length…well, figuratively—but he was too tired to play along. Krem had been injured in the Charger’s latest job, and his dreams were stained a sickly yellow as worry and pain flickered through the Fade in choking mists. It took everything Feynriel had not to charter a boat and track his Voice down _immediately_.

The woman arched a dark brow, as if reading the eddies of worry on his face. She had uncanny blue eyes and an unfortunate habit of not blinking anywhere _near_ enough. It made Feynriel’s own eyes water just to look at her. “And is it true that you can dip at will into the dreams of others?”

 _Here it goes_ , he thought with a sigh. He should have guessed this was where they were headed—he would have, if he hadn’t been so distracted. She didn’t just want to compare masters and training and arcane studies and blah blah blah. She was one of _those_ —one of the power-hungry who thought they could somehow convince him to sneak into the dreams of their rivals and assassinate them while they slept. _Those_ were the worst; they always left his skin crawling long after he’d managed to make his escape.

He definitely wasn’t in the mood for all that backstabby bullshit tonight. _Retreat, retreat, retreat_.

“I’m sure my master,” _ugh_ , what an awful word; especially here in Tevinter where the sight of elvish slaves everywhere gave it such a sickly double meaning, “could tell you much more about that. Uh, if you’ll excuse…” He started to edge around her.

Not quickly enough. The woman moved like a striking snake, catching his wrist in a cold vise-like grip. Her too-blue eyes practically burned through him—like lyrium, or the first hint of a winter’s grasp gone wrong—and Feynriel shivered and flinched away, trapped. “I’m not—” he began, trying to twist free.

She merely tightened her grip— _hard_ , each finger seeming to sear into his skin. Cold, cold, so very cold, and yet he could easily imagine the burning red marks they might leave behind. “I am not asking your master,” she said, leaning closer. Seeming to loom despite their difference in heights. “I am asking _you_. Is it true you are able to dip into the dreams of others? Is it true you are able to track those who have been lost?”

 _Bloody void_. “Yes,” Feynriel snapped, fighting to hide the panic rising in his throat. Master Xerxes shielded him from most glory-seekers looking to duel the barbarian Ferelden somniari, but a few slipped through the cracks now and again. ( _Or_ , Feynriel sometimes thought in his darkest moments, _Master Xerxes lets them slip through to test me_.)  Apprentice duels weren’t nearly as deadly as their older counterparts, but they were no less dangerous—to status, to standing in the slippery bog that was Tevinter politics, to the future: one failure, after all, bred many others as the carrion crows circled every-closer. Andraste’s tits, but he wasn’t in a good state to face that sort of threat tonight.

“ _Yes_ , okay? Now if you’d just let me—”

Feynriel broke off with a low whine at the sudden flare of pain. It radiated from her freezing cold grip and traveled up his arm; he could actually see the veins beneath his pale skin glow a brilliant blue. He looked up, frightened, trapped, but no one else seemed to be paying them any mind. Theirs was just another quiet power play flaring up in some easily-ignored corner; nothing new, and certainly not remarkable enough to bring anyone to his defense.

 _Fucking_ Tevinter.

“My master lost someone,” the woman was saying, voice low and measured, rasping in a sibilant hiss. “His servant; his bodyguard. An elf. This young wolf stole something very valuable when he ran.”

“So what is he then?” Feynriel said, trying to twist away, trying to recall a spell that might send her stumbling back without attracting undue attention. That was the trick, wasn’t it? Weaponize spellcraft as much as you want, torment other apprentices as much as you dare, but for the Maker’s sake, be _subtle_ about it. “An elf or a wolf?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Find him for me, and I will make sure you are amply rewarded. Master Danarius is a powerful mage; I could introduce you to him when next the magisterium gathers.”

 _And is he as charming as you?_ Feynriel thought darkly, letting subtle heat spring to his fingertips, counteracting the bone-deep chill. _I imagine the two of you are just a hoot_. “Very well. Send a description to my lodgings,” he said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. These mages were suckers for conspiracy; more than half the time, all he really needed was to play along and they’d find a way to hang themselves without his help. “His name, his background, his appearance. I’ll need,” bother, what bullshit to ask for this time? “something he touched. Something _important_. Not just a table knife he moved once, but something that stayed against his skin for prolonged period of time.”

She was nodding along, intent, unblinking. No longer threatening now that he seemed sufficiently cowed. It was funny how many people tried to take advantage of his rare power without actually understanding how it worked—if she knew anything at all, she would have been able to smell bullshit on the wind. “I will do this,” she said. Then, as if it meant anything to him: “I am Hadriana.”

“Of course you are,” Feynriel said. When her eyes narrowed, he added, “Everyone has heard of you and your great master, obviously.”

That pleased her more than anything. The smug smile that stretched her face would have been funny if he was in any sort of a laughing mood. “Very well,” she said. Hadriana reached out to brush one talon-like fingernail down the center of his chest, smile stretching when he flinched back. Those chilling eyes never left his face. “I look forward to your cooperation, Feynriel,” she purred before turning and slinking away, silent as any shade.

Feynriel shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. He could feel the lingering echo of her touch, and it was all he could do not to turn on his heel and flee the room—the party—Minrathous itself. _Maker_. It felt like everyone was watching him. Balls, maybe they were—maybe they were staring at the stupid half-elf and laughing behind their creepy dead eyes.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to _hide_.

Feynriel took a step back, bumping into a delicate table and nearly sending a likely priceless vase toppling. A semi-familiar apprentice was looking his way, brows arched in amused disdain. Feynriel cursed under his breath and quickly straightened the vase, holding onto its delicate rim until he was certain it was steady. Then he carefully carefully carefully backed away…only to clip against the elbow of a woman in glittering white robes.

“Apologies,” he muttered in Tevene, ducking his head and trying to ignore her scathing glare. He felt all at once too big for his skin, limbs long and awkward, body no longer fully under his control. It was the threat he’d seen in Hadriana’s eyes—the ice of her unwanted touch— _something_ getting under his skin and sending him spiraling out of balance. (It took so little to have him spooked; he’d never much felt at home in his own skin.) “Apologies,” he said again beneath his breath, to the room at large, to his master, to himself. To a mother who thought he was in Tevinter learning to be a great man and to Aidan Hawke, who saved him only for Feynriel to fucking step in it every chance he got.

No one paid him any mind, even as he crept along the perimeter of the room, making a beeline for a heavy set of drapes he’d noticed earlier in the evening. And wasn’t that just fucking sad that he made a habit out of seeking out places to _hide_ every time he left the safety of his rooms? (Almost as sad as the fact that he made a habit out of ducking into those little alcoves every chance he got.) But Maker he was glad for it now. He couldn’t leave the party without causing offense, but hiding? Hiding he was so very good at.

Feynriel glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching him—the coast seemed clear, mingling guests too busy with each other to pay him much mind. Drawing a breath, Feynriel slipped behind the heavy fold of the curtain, letting it flutter behind him as he retreated deeper into the little alcove.

It was dark, thick drapery blocking light and muffling sound. It felt like being in the womb—or, more apt, like yanking his blankets over his head and squeezing his eyes shut. In other words, pure heaven. Feynriel let out a ragged breath and shuffled back toward the window, feeling his way with outstretched fingertips…

…and nearly _yowling_ with surprise when his hand came in contact with all-too-living flesh.

“ _Maker!_ ” he yelped, stumbling back, arms pinwheeling violently.

The figure moved fast, jerking out to snag his bare upper arm, grip tight—keeping him from tripping on the trailing end of his own robe and toppling ass-over-teakettle back into the party. Feynriel caught an impression of flashing white teeth against dark skin and gold heavy around a bare bicep. The man’s grip tightened before slowly letting go. “Are you quite all right?” he asked, in barely-accented Common. Amusement curled around each word, but it didn’t sound as if the stranger was outright laughing at him. That was a pleasant change of pace. “Catch your feet again?”

“Something close enough, I suppose,” Feynriel muttered. He brushed back the long tendrils of ash-blond hair spilling from his ridiculously fancy braid. Thank the Maker for the darkness of the alcove, or the stranger would be able to see his cheeks flaming bright red. “Erm—thank you. And I apologize; I didn’t see you there.”

“Well,” the man said, sitting on the (open) windowsill again. “That would be because I am _hiding_ , naturally. I dare say it would defeat the purpose if I were easily seen.”

“Um,” Feynriel said. He had…no idea how to respond to that. It never occurred to him that someone _else_ might want to hide from the festivities.

He glanced once over his shoulder, anxious. The party seemed so wonderfully distant, so inconsequential. The drapes muffled everything until it became a wall of indistinct sound; the breeze felt wonderfully cooling against his flushed cheeks. He didn’t want to leave.

The stranger seemed to sense that. “Here,” he said, gesturing next to him. The window was broad enough (and Feynriel skinny enough, in the way all underfed alienage brats were skinny) that they could sit side-by-side and still not be touching. “Perhaps you would care to join me?”

“…didn’t you come back here to be alone?” _I did_ , he didn’t add—wasn’t sure he needed to. Something about the stranger was causing the tension to bleed from his shoulders slowly but surely. He didn’t necessarily consider himself a quick judge of character, but he was already fairly certain that this handsome man (mage? Yes, easy enough to assume so, judging by the fine robes he wore) meant him no harm. “I should leave you be.”

He just waved Feynriel off, rings catching the dull light. “You hardly seem like the kind to be a _bother_ ,” he said. “You’re Feynriel, aren’t you? Don’t worry,” he added with another quick, quixotic grin as Feynriel pulled back, “I won’t ask you to murder my enemies in their sleep or whatever horrid little crimes my peers pester you for. Please, sit.”

And to Feynriel’s utter surprise, he did. He was moving on instinct even before his brain fully kicked in, settling on the windowsill next to the strange mage and drawing up his legs to wrap his arms around his shins. _Like a child,_ but the other man didn’t seem to care.

“There now,” he said, smiling at Feynriel. “We can both hide away, and no one else the wiser.”

Feynriel rested his chin on his knees. “Why are _you_ hiding?” he asked, studying the other man’s face. There was just enough starlight that Feynriel was able to make out the vague shape of him, now that his eyes were adjusting. Dark hair cut very short; dark eyes with ridiculously long lashes; a carefully manicured moustache; a crooked smile that didn’t seem half as cruel as he’d come to expect from the powerful.  _Handsome_ , Feynriel supposed, though Krem had gotten so under his skin that he barely recognized that fact as anything more than a curious abstract. “Oh. And what’s your name?”

“I had wondered when you’d call me out for being unforgivably rude,” the man said dryly. He pressed a hand over his chest. “Dorian Pavus, at your disposal.”

Pavus, Pavus. He _knew_ that name. “You’re…apprenticed to Magister Alexius?” Feynriel asked slowly, drawing fragments of memory and gossip together. He only paid as much attention to the various alliances and enmities as necessary, preferring to keep as far away from the constant battle that was Tevinter culture as possible, but sometimes information made it through his self-imposed embargo. Magister Alexius, his son, and his brilliant protégé were supposedly working on high-level theoretical magics—impressive enough to have tongues wagging despite (or maybe because of) their refusal to use…all the tools at their disposal.

Which Feynriel was safe assuming meant blood magic.

Dorian’s smile was widening, growing increasingly laconic. He leaned back against the sill, watching Feynriel with an arched brow. “You’ve heard of me, then? Hopefully good things. I do so like to be admired.”

Feynriel laughed, startled. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure you’ve got enough admirers already—you don’t need to add _me_.”

“And if I wanted to add you?” he murmured, tipping his head the other way, those pretty eyes of his locked on Feynriel’s face.

Feynriel felt his cheeks heat again, stomach dropping like a rock in water. Oh. Oh, awkward. “You’d have a rough time of it, I’m afraid,” he said, squirming a little in place. Dorian really _was_ remarkably attractive, of course, but he wasn’t _Krem_. Feynriel didn’t know how or why or, or, or _whatever_ , but he’d never found anyone other than Krem particularly attractive. He’d never _wanted_ to find anyone other than Krem attractive, and the few times when someone showed interest were uniformly mortifying and awful. “I’m, um, taken. I mean. I have a Voice, of course. And I guess you could say I’m pretty devoted to him.”

 _There_. Let Dorian make of that whatever he wanted. Feynriel was already mentally retreating, ready to make tracks the moment the words _unum vinctum_ passed the other man’s lips.

But, once again, Dorian surprised him. He leaned forward, a curiously intent look on his face. “Voice,” he said, as if testing the word out. His tongue flicked out to touch his upper lip in a surprisingly obvious tell. All that easy, flirtatious bullshit was gone, replaced by something…quieter. More honest. And…afraid? Gah, Feynriel had never been all that great at reading people. “Right, yes, of course. You’re a Marcher. Things are…different where you come from.”

“Yes,” Feynriel said, thinking of all those _unum vinctum_ he had seen, their eyes suitably lowered, as silent as any shadow. The mere idea of Krem being treated like that—of Krem being considered little more than his _slave_ —never failed to make him flush with silent rage. Of all the downfalls of Tevinter culture—of all the things he frankly detested—that was the worst.

 _Though to be a little fair_ , a part of him whispered, _it isn’t as if a mage and his Voice can be free in the Marches either._

He pushed that thought aside.

Dorian was still studying him—silently, measuringly, as if trying to decide what to say next. As if _weighing_ his words oh so carefully. Finally he flicked his tongue against his upper lip again ( _definitely a tell_ , and proof enough how very nervous the other man was), and added, “Ah. Not to be unforgivably forward, but what can you tell me about your…Voice?”

“About _my_ Voice?” He’d rather tumble face-first into the void than tell _any_ Tevinter, no matter how nice, about Krem.

Dorian was already shaking his head, however, waving away the words. “No, no, of course, I mean in general. The… _concept_ intrigues me, you could say.” He paused, brows twitching faintly together, and dropped his gaze—just for a _moment_ , barely enough to give him away. “Being a scholarly sort and all, you know.”

“I’m not a science experiment,” Feynriel said, beginning to stand.

Dorian just held out his hand, rings flashing gold in the moonlight. “A scholarly sort,” he said, voice so incredibly quiet, “with, you could say, a…vested interest.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Feynriel sat back, a prickle of gooseflesh sweeping down his arms. He could count on one hand all the times he had been asked about Voices here: for most Tevinter mages, it wasn’t a concept they cared to understand. Things were _different_ in Tevinter. Even Feynriel’s own master kept an _unum vinctum_ —a quiet Ferelden girl who followed like a shadow in his footsteps.

For the first few months of Feynriel’s apprenticeship, he’d been so horrified by the golden collar about her pretty throat that he’d barely been able to focus past the rage. He’d tried to corner her alone, to ask her if she wanted help escaping; all she’d ever said, in a voice as soft as a raven’s wing: “I am where I am meant to be.”

As if she had become so brainwashed by the magister that she no longer wished to be free. Or maybe it was just a perverted echo of love that was supposed to bloom between a mage and their Voice: but Feynriel couldn’t imagine how such obvious servitude could be mistaken for _love_ , and he burned brighter and brighter with each _unun vinctum_ he passed, determined to learn what he could to be _safe_ so he could find Krem and and and—

And what? Admit that he’d left so many Voices behind him, trapped in bondage? Admit that he’d been a coward? Admit that he’d lived in Tevinter for so long and still didn’t know what the bloody hell to _do_?

 _And oh balls_ , Feynriel thought, viciously pushing that self-flagellation away for another day. He’d face that shame when the time came. Now there was…this. Now there was Dorian Pavus, heir to a well-established Tevinter family, asking him about _Voices._ “It’s nothing like what you have here,” Feynriel said—testing the waters.

“That I do not doubt,” Dorian said, and something about the bitter curl of self-hatred in his tone had Feynriel relaxing all over again. This wasn’t one of those mages who thought Tevinter culture was the end-all and be-all of Thedas, he reminded himself. From all he’d heard, Dorian Pavus was…different. And maybe if he could plant the seeds and change one willing Tevinter mind, he wouldn’t feel like such a failure when he finally fled this place in search of Krem.

 _One pebble thrown into a whole ocean of fucked-upedness_ , Feynriel thought, but he leaned forward on his elbows, willing to give it a shot anyway. If nothing else, it gave him the excuse to talk about his favorite topic for a little while. “All right,” he said. “I can tell you all about Voices.” He faltered then under those bright, curious, _intelligent_ eyes—awkward and uncertain how to begin. “Um, so, what do you want to know?”

“Why don’t we start with everything?” Dorian said, crossing his legs and leaning one elbow against his knee. He propped a chin in his palm, watching Feynriel with open amusement and curiosity and…hunger? Yes, that word felt right: _hunger_. But not for Feynriel himself, he was realizing slowly, that uneasiness drifting away like smoke on a light breeze. More like he was desperate for every bit of knowledge Feynriel could share. As if he were…starved for the little scraps of lore Feynriel had gathered about Voices all his life.

 _I wonder_ , Feynriel suddenly wondered, feeling a flutter of pity growing deep in the pit of his stomach, _what happens to a Tevinter mage who falls in love with his unum vinctum?_

It seemed rude to ask. Even more so, it seemed _cruel_.

Feynriel cleared his throat. “All right,” he said, trying to settle into his thoughts, increasingly certain that no matter what he said about Voices, this man would understand. Maybe not all of Tevinter, but _this Tevinter_.

That was…a start? Wasn’t it?

“So, for the rest of us, it begins with a voice in the Fade.”


	7. Dorian

Dorian sighed and tipped his head back against the small mountain of pillows. The only thing worse than being kidnapped and held prisoner in your childhood home was—

No. No, there really wasn’t anything worse than being kidnapped and held prisoner in your childhood home, was there? Especially not when it seemed your _loving parents_ were all too happy to leave you there to rot.

“Fasta vass,” he muttered, glaring up at his ceiling. It had been a very, very long time since he’d found himself here. He liked to think he was a different man now—grown leagues away from the angry, confused, yearning little twit who used to stare up at this very ceiling every night and wish himself into something, someone, _different_ , if only to please his father. Now he was—

What? Now he was _what?_

No longer one of the most promising young enchanters in the Minrathous Circle, that was for certain. Alexius’ decent into obsessive madness had taken care of that. No longer quite the dutiful son, either. Certainly not a credit to his family’s good name. Not a mage anyone would want to be, not a man anyone would particularly admire.

What was it his father had called him, the day he’d dragged him bodily from Lord Who-sit’s estate? _A reprobate_. _An ingrate_. _A drunken, lecherous fool determined to ruin everything this family stands for_.

Dorian blew out a breath, hating the way his insides cringed at the memory. It had been nearly two months since he’d been pulled out of his…downward spiral…and shipped off to his childhood home to cool his heels. Two months to be angry, to be frustrated, to be restless, to be yes, fine, _ashamed_. He was _ashamed_ of the way he’d acted, crawling into the deepest, most licentious pit he could find after failing to pull his former master back from the ledge. He was _ashamed_ of the way he’d deliberately flaunted his excesses; he was _ashamed_ to admit that, deep down, he’d wanted to flame out so badly that someone—his father—would be forced to come down from on high and finally pay attention. To bloody help, all right?

“This,” Dorian told his childhood room, settling deeper into the creaking old bed, “is _not helping_.”

 _Though of course_ , a part of him whispered, _lying here in a proper sulk isn’t much help either._

He groaned and covered his eyes with an arm, nearly frustrated enough to send a fireball flying at the far wall. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if his parents hadn’t just left him here, with nothing but a stern warning to keep him prisoner. In theory, he could leave at any time—if he could just get his father’s baleful glare out of his head.

If he wanted to become that _reprobate_ his father took him for.

“Oh, bloody void take it all,” Dorian decided, throwing his arm aside and curling determinedly around one of his many silken pillows. He pressed his face against the cool cloth, breathing through the fireflash of _shame shame shame_ building in his gut, and forced himself to close his eyes.

There was no use wallowing. There was even less use picking at old scabs and expecting the pain to be any less than before. What was done was done, and the truth was he _did_ want to be pulled from the refuse pit he’d made of himself over the last sloppy few months in the wake of his break with Alexius. If the price of that transformation was enforced exile and boredom, well, then, he may as well wait patiently for his father to remember he existed and count his lucky stars it all wasn’t so much _worse_.

Still, as Dorian gave himself up to the Fade, he couldn’t quite escape that feeling of having _failed_ : himself, his parents, his teacher, his whole fucking bloodline. It sat heavy on his chest, fit to choke the breath from him. It…hurt. It hurt more than he was willing to admit. And, reeling from that hurt, raw from that shame, there was only one place in the whole of Thedas Dorian wanted to be right now—the one place he hadn’t allowed himself to go for, Maker, could it have been _years_ now?

No. It couldn’t possibly have been that long. …could it?

Standing in the Fade, drifting through the darkness of unsettled dreams, Dorian stilled long enough to let himself listen for the call of his Voice—young and sweet and strong despite how hard Dorian fought every night to ignore it. Wending its way through each pulse of his blood as if somehow the boy he _still_ refused to admit existed had some terrible hold on him.

 _It’s funny_ , Dorian thought, drifting subtly closer to that magnetic pull; both afraid and excited to see his Voice again after so long. _For all I think about him all the time, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be near him._

The last time he’d been weak enough to seek Taran out in the Fade, Alexius’s wife had just been killed. That had been a dark, dark time. Alexius was beside himself, frantic and furious and ripped to shreds by grief; Felix was little more than a pale shell of himself. Dorian had done everything he could think of to help, but the sheer raw power of Alexius’ loss had burned hot as a flame. Every time he tried to draw near, it _burned_.

Seeing Taran—always from a distance, always for just a few moments at a time—was the only thing that kept him going in those first dark days. The boy had been awkward and coltish and endearingly earnest as he sprinted through Dorian’s dreams. _Golden_ , like something out of a fairy story. Some prince in his earliest stages, stumbling at the threshold of adulthood and so. Fucking. _Sweet_. It was almost painful to look at him, his smile was so bright.

 _Yes_ , Dorian thought, drifting closer, letting himself be pulled faster and faster toward that echoing voice in the darkness. _It’s been long enough; a few minutes tonight won’t hurt._ Anyone who cared about Dorian tracking down his _unum vinctum_ had long since given up on him, after all. What harm could there be in just…

A flash of light, the scent of salt, the sound of crashing waves that always, always heralded Taran’s approach—as if his Voice had been birthed by the Waking Sea itself. And then—

He was there.

Dorian blinked against the sudden glare of sunlight, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. It was hot against his skin, the dream so real he could feel it in his bones. Sweat prickled at his temples and gathered at the base of his spine. A low wind blew, dragging the edges of his robes around him like tendrils of smoke.

He was standing at the crest of the cliff overlooking the Waking Sea. Many, many yards below him was the open span of the beach—a wide swath of sand, this low in the tide—and behind him crouched the terrible eyesore that was Trevelyan Manor. Dorian didn’t bother glancing back toward that ghastly mausoleum of a home, instead lifting the ends of his robe and beginning the treacherous climb down to the shore. Taran was almost never near the house. It was almost as if the boy were as wary of it and its ghosts as Dorian was of his own father.

Considering the gothic horror of Taran’s life, he supposed he couldn’t blame him.

The wind kicked up again, blowing a fine mist of ocean spray across his cheeks. He could hear the scuff of feet drifting up from the beach far below, underscored by the occasional grunt of effort. Taran was either rescuing mages in his dreams again (and Maker, but it was ridiculous how that warmed his heart), or practicing his swordplay.

He hurried his steps, taking less care with the steep path than he would if this weren’t all a dream. Now that he was close, he suddenly couldn’t stand another moment not in Taran’s company. It was remarkable he managed to stay away for so long at a time, resisting the siren call he heard every night, determined to keep his young Voice _safe_. That was what mattered most—keeping Taran from the collar, the shame, the, the, the utter _horror_ of becoming an _unum vinctum_. A boy like Taran, with his sunny smile and irrepressible charm, would wither away in captivity. A boy like Taran, with his fierce sense of right and wrong and his drive to help everyone around him, would be broken by the corruption of Tevinter. A boy like Taran…

A boy like…

A boy…

Dorian slowed his steps as he reached the base of the cliff, staring across the little span of beach where Taran was practicing his swordplay—shirtless and gleaming with sweat, and _holy fucking Maker_ , certainly no _boy_ any longer.

The Voice he had last seen, so long ago, had been gawky and endearingly awkward, arms and legs far too long for his body, hands and feet ridiculously big. He’d never been scrawny, even as a little boy, but it always seemed as if he was half-starved for food and affection and bloody well everything. Too lean and hollowed out for the muscles that were beginning to grow on his coltish frame.

Now.

 _Now_.

Now Taran was something else altogether. He was…

Dorian wet his lips, watching, struck dumb, as the young man he’d loved for years twisted with the elegant dance of his swordwork, muscles straining the sun-kissed gold of his skin. He was _tall_ —taller by Dorian by at least a hand—and deliciously broad across the shoulders. His bare chest was carved perfection, dusted with a light trail of golden-brown hair that darkened bit by bit as it crept down his toned stomach. His loose training pants hung low on his hips, revealing a tempting cut of muscle that, fasta vass, had him all but drooling like a lecher.

He forced his eyes up, feeling his own skin heating. The last he’d seen Taran, he’d had the body of a youth; now, there was no denying he was quickly becoming a _man_ , and for the first time, attraction burned alongside the love he’d long harbored. Fuck, he was standing here all but undressing his Voice with his eyes—he had no idea what to _do_ with this.

“This,” Dorian said, voice breaking in a way that would have been mortifying if Taran were actually able to hear him, “is a little excessive, don’t you think? This whole…” He gestured, taking Taran in from the top of his golden-brown head down to his bare toes flecked with sand. “Absolutely gorgeous thing you’re doing. I’d really rather you stop it right now and go back to being cute and sexless, thank you.”

Taran twisted with his next steady blow, sword catching the sunlight. His brows were set in concentration, but he was smiling a little, too. That smile, at least, was familiar. It kept Taran from being a complete stranger to him—a stranger he very much wanted to know, to touch, to… To do all sorts of things with and to, and _Maker_ he needed to scrub his brain for all the filth that was sprinting through it.

Dorian gave a huff of breath and moved to a nearby rock, dropping down on it with little elegance. He remembered that half-elf boy he still sometimes wrote to, Feynriel, talking about venturing into the Fade to watch his own Voice practice swordplay for all hours of the night. It had seemed a little strange at the time, but Dorian was beginning to get the appeal now.

Sunlight shone on tanned skin; it glistened off every damned bead of sweat streaming down Taran’s impressive shoulders, back, chest. Dorian actually licked his lips, feeling like a terrible pervert and unable to help himself from imagining following one of those intriguing trails with his tongue.

He covered his face with his hands and groaned. “You. Are. Too. Young. For. Me. To. Be. This. Interested!” he said, voice muffled. He was half-hard and certainly hot enough beneath the collar to warrant every kind of shame possible. Maker, Taran couldn’t be much more than eighteen— _if that_. Just a couple of years shy of thirty himself, Dorian should have been able to trust himself not to be enticed by such…absolutely glorious displays of youth. He’d certainly seen to it that he had experience of the flesh enough, no matter how solidly his heart was taken.

And yet— _and yet_ —there was no denying now that he _was_ very, very interested in Taran Trevelyan in every possible way. The near-innocent love he’d been harboring for the boy he saw in flashes through the years was quickly changing on him, expanding, growing into something terrifyingly real and adult as he grappled with the fact that the little boy of his heart was no longer _quite_ so little anymore.

That his Voice could maybe someday be a true partner, a true lover, in every sense of the word. A, a, a _bondmate_ , a _husband_ , a—

He stood up with a start, heart racing with something that felt like terror at the thought. Taran, unaware of his fear, continued to move across the sand with focused grace; leonine and strong and heartbreakingly beautiful. It was all too easy to let himself imagine leaning against that strong body—tucking his head against Taran’s shoulder, just tall enough to press his face into the curve of his neck. Taking strength from a warm hand at the base of his spine and the scent of the sea and the solid, loving comfort of another person—another _man_ —there at his side for longer than one hurried night at a time.

“I doubt you realize this,” Dorian said, voice breaking again, “but you have just become the most dangerous person in my life.”

The most dangerous, and the most tempting. No desire demon had anything on Taran Trevelyan. Because now that he’d had the thought, now that he’d let himself imagine what actually _being_ with his Voice would be like, he could actually feel his heart breaking over the knowledge that it could never happen. He was an altus of Tevinter; Taran was his _unum vinctum_. If anyone discovered he had _found_ Taran and refused to claim him…

Dorian dropped his face into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could somehow erase the image burned into his brain. It would have been better if he’d gone on thinking of Taran as that distant boy he’d give his life to protect. It hurt enough being away from him; keeping himself away from the possibility of a fully realized romantic life was, venhedis, absolute torture.

But he would do it.

To keep Taran safe, he would do just about anything.

“I should go,” he said—not wanting to. That was the greatest danger in all of this, though, wasn’t it? How little he _wanted_ to leave Taran’s side. “I should…return to wallowing. I should—” He sighed, dropped his hands. “It is a very good thing I am principled when it comes to you, you realize,” Dorian said. “Because the way I have been acting recently—the things I have done—have not made me a very good man. Maybe not even a decent man. And I can’t help but think…well.”

His lips twisted into a smile. “You deserve the very best, don’t you?”

Taran didn’t respond. But then, bathed in sunlight, his own smile toying at the corner of his lips, his eyes clear and back straight and body strong, he didn’t exactly _need_ to.

Dorian opened his mouth to say one final goodbye, heart aching—when suddenly the world tipped sideways.

He startled up, one hand lifting to protect himself, fingertips glowing with dark energy as he was yanked from the Fade. His room was dark, wreathed in late night shadows so deep he almost missed the figure leaning over him until it clapped a clammy hand across his mouth.

Dorian gave a shout, struggling up, only to be pushed back. “ _Hush_ , you idiot boy!” Lucia hissed, face swinging closer to his in the darkness.

Narrowing his eyes, Dorian bit her bony hand.

Lucia muttered something beneath her breath, but at least she dropped her hand and pulled back. Dorian shoved away the light sheet covering him, swinging up to stand next to her. Whatever his father’s _unum vinctum_ was doing in his bedroom this late at night, he had no intention of facing the harpy lying down. In fact, he—

Wait.

If Lucia was _here_ , in this house, then his father couldn’t be far behind.

“So he finally decided to remember he had a son,” Dorian said, crossing his arms. He refused to look cowed in front of Lucia. The two of them had been little better than rival cats ever since he was old enough to realize his father’s narrowed-eyed shadow _wasn’t_ another mother. She was probably delighted how far he’d fallen in everyone’s favor. She’d certainly enjoy reminding him he’d done this to himself, given half the chance. “Though maybe not one he’s willing to remind the magisterium of yet—I presume that’s why the two of you chose to steal in here like thieves in the night when—”

She gave a frustrated hiss of breath, cutting him off before he could find his way to truly self-righteous. “Dorian, listen to me,” Lucia said. “There isn’t—”

Like hell was he going to allow her to shush him. He wasn’t exactly a _child_ anymore. “Or was he hoping to catch me unawares? Perhaps see if I had found a way to _backslide_ into my…what did he call it?...disgusting little display of—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” the _unum vinctum_ hissed, baring her teeth at him, “and listen to me for once in your Maker-damned life!”

The fury behind those words—the fear—was enough to shock Dorian into silence. He and Lucia were always at each other’s’ throats for as long as he could remember, but she’d always kept some measure of proper respect in her tone. Even when she was at her most needling, she was at least _aware_ he was the scion of House Pavus and the son of her master.

This? This was a new side to Lucia—a frightened, human side that had him studying her in a new light. Her eyes were wide, a little wild, and her lips pale. She was… Was she _trembling?_

“What is happening?” Dorian asked, reaching out on some impulse to catch her (cold) hands between his own. He rubbed them briskly, warming them as if she hadn’t always hated him. “Are you all right?”

Lucia closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “But _you_ aren’t.”

“Well that is hardly news.”

Lucia tugged her hands free, lips pressed into a thin line; she was still quaking, nervous in a way he had never seen her before. “No, Dorian,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You don’t understand. You’re in terrible danger right now. Your father is in his study, preparing a spell that…”

She trailed off, helpless, as if she couldn’t even find the words to encompass her horror.

“What?” Dorian demanded. His head must have still been foggy with sleep, because none of this made any sense. “What kind of spell? Why would he slip home in the middle of the night to cast it—and why would it put _me_ in any danger?” And, with a surety he felt to his bones: “My father would never do anything to hurt me.”

“He’s at the end of his rope with you,” Lucia said. “You’re so void-bent on ruining your life and taking the rest of your family down with you—he doesn’t know how to stop it, except to…change that part of you that makes you resist your fate.”

“What _are_ you talking about?”

Lucia made a frustrated noise and stalked away, going to yank open Dorian’s wardrobe. She began pulling out his clothes at random, tossing them toward the bed with neat, almost weaponized efficiency. She’d gladly helped pack him off to this school or that over the years; she certainly had the method down to a science.

“Lucia,” Dorian said, baffled, annoyed, and increasingly anxious himself, no matter that he was nearly thirty and hardly a child she could terrorize anymore, “what _are_ you doing?”

“Once you see I’m telling the truth, you’ll want to be able to escape as quickly as possible,” she said, moving efficiently through his room, beginning to pack his things. Clothes and his favorite books and jewels and mementos—all the things he would have reached for first if _he_ had been the one trying to uproot his life. If he gave himself a moment to consider it, it would be shocking how well his father’s _unum vinctum_ knew him. “There’s a small window while your father draws enough blood and arranges the reagents for the spell, but it won’t last forever. You’ll have to—”

Flaring with (terrified) fury, Dorian caught her about the shoulders and forced her to turn and look at him. He could feel the magic rising in him, reacting, wanting to blast out in a show of power, but he swallowed it back as he met her eyes. Controlling himself with everything he had, Dorian said, “You need to stop and explain yourself. Kaffas. What do you mean by insinuating my father would stoop to _blood magic?_ He would never. Lucia—he would _never_.”

“But he is,” she said, gently. It was that unexpected softness that startled him into letting her go—into almost, for a moment, believing her. “He doesn’t want to, but he thinks this is the only way. If he can _change_ you, maybe you’ll fall in line and be the heir he needs.” She drew a hand across her brow, looking all at once old and frail. Too thin, as if she hadn’t been eating well for weeks. “He thinks he can make you content—maybe even happy. But first he has to violate everything you are, and I can’t just stand by and _watch_ him ruin himself like this.”

“What,” Dorian began.

Lucia lifted her hands to his chest and shoved back, hard. “You couldn’t just be like the rest of us, could you?” she said. “You couldn’t just bend when you had to; you had to make him _break_ you? Well, breaking you is going to break him, and I can’t, I won’t, I _won’t_ allow that to happen. I won’t stand by and watch the other half of my soul shatter just because everything in this Maker-forsaken country has given itself over to corruption.”

He’d never heard her talk like this; he’d never even imagined she could. Lucia had belonged to his father for longer than Dorian had been alive. He’d assumed that somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten what it was like to be Nevarran, to be a free woman. He supposed he’d always assumed that his father had broken _her_ in all those years, until she’d become the _unum vinctum_ instead of the Voice.

“How?” he asked quietly, not wanting to believe her but beginning to despite himself. That kind of passion had to come from somewhere. “How does he plan to change me? What is he trying to do?”

She turned away from him again, back to packing his things. Instead of fighting her, Dorian moved to help. If she was wrong about all of this—and Maker, she had to be wrong, to be deluded, didn’t she?—then it wouldn’t hurt anything to have gone through this trouble. He would simply pretend this night never happened, and in the morning they’d go back to snipping at each other whenever his father wasn’t looking. But if she was telling the truth…

“…some kind of spell,” Lucia was saying. “It requires a great deal of blood, both his and yours. I don’t know how it works, but he said it would change your nature. You would no longer care for men the way you do.” He refused to wince to hear her say it. “You would no longer want to fight against getting married, or joining your father’s politics, or whatever else it was he needed of you. You would become…” She trailed off.

“Lobotomized,” Dorian finished for her, utterly cold.

“Docile,” she agreed, glancing over at him. That unexpected kindness was back in her eyes again. No, not kindness…kinship. As if she understood exactly how he felt. “Certainly not _you_ anymore. And he wouldn’t recover from the guilt.” Lucia reached over and gently plucked the robe Dorian was holding between nerveless fingers. “Go on,” she added, tipping her head toward the door. “He’s so focused on preparations that he won’t hear you if you want to spy in on him. Go see for yourself so you know beyond any doubt what he plans for you; I’ll finish packing your bag so you can be ready to run.”

 _No_ , Dorian thought, wanting to push back against the possibility that any of this could be real. If he just shoved her out of his room and went back to bed—drew the blankets up and squeezed his eyes tight—all of this would go away.

But if she was telling the truth…

If his father truly did mean to commit this act of violence…

If his father…

“He wouldn’t,” Dorian said quietly, wishing he was young and blind and foolish enough to believe that. To believe that the love his stern father had for him was strong enough to stand against the sheer crushing weight of centuries of family expectation. His father _did_ love him; he believed that much.

But there was also a piece of him that believed his father truly would do this, just to see his bloodline continue.

The way Lucia looked at him hurt. It hurt, and it made him angry, and it made him want to run scared into the night, as if the years had never passed and he was that frustrated little boy again: struggling against the world he never quite fit into. “I’ll prove you wrong,” Dorian said, even though he already believed she was telling the truth. He already, deep down, believed his father was capable of doing this to him—and _that_ was reason enough to leave House Pavus and never look back.

Lucia—his father’s _unum vinctum_ —the woman who’d challenged him all his life, at every turn—smiled in a way that nearly broke his heart. “Oh Dorian,” she said, far more affection on those two words than she had ever shown him before in his miserable life, “I really wish you would.”


	8. Taran

“Stop gaping,” Cassius hissed beneath his breath. He was standing in a new suit of armor, polished to an impossible shine. His brand new, untried, blade was strapped to one hip. “People are beginning to notice.”

Taran glanced at his brother, one corner of his mouth quirking. “I doubt anyone cares enough to look twice at _me_ ,” he said, but he did try to keep from staring at everything around him. It was a nearly impossible task. The whole mountainside seemed to echo with energy, excitement, nerves and fear. Templars marched down the rutted street in rows of two, and the rebel mages drew together in a solid wall of defiance, murmuring amongst themselves.

The tension was so strong, it was a physical presence. But there was hope here, too, Taran thought—caught in the whispers that swept through the temple of sacred ashes: _Divine Justinia will make this right_.

Whether or not a single woman could live up to such heightened expectation remained to be seen.

Taran followed in his brother’s footsteps, three paces behind like the obedient squire he was pretending to be. There hadn’t been enough coin to buy him new arms and armor, so he was in Cassius’ castoffs; the edges were worn so thin they were in danger of going ragged, and the tooled leather breastplate fit poorly across Taran’s broader chest. If he just sat still and didn’t breathe like his brother had commanded, he should be fine, but…

But there was just so much to _see_.

“ _Taran!_ ”

Cassius didn’t strike him or cuff him upside the head—he wasn’t a boy any longer, in need of his brother’s all-too-firm hand—but Taran jerked to attention all the same. He bit back the sheepish expression, knowing it would only make Cassius angrier, and hurried to keep pace. The rocky path beneath their feet was newly paved, and the mountains rose high and majestic around them. It _looked_ like the sort of place one would fight a dragon, face clever traps and riddles, and discover ancient treasure.

“Do you suppose there really was a dragon?” Taran asked, voice pitched low. He cast a quick look at the big iron bell as they passed, wondering if the Hero of Ferelden really _had_ used it to call down the temple’s guardian. A few of the younger-looking mages were edging around it, talking in excited whispers. Taran wanted nothing more than to join them; to explore this place he’d read so much about and relive the Warden’s adventures in his head as if he really was still a child. “Would you have called the dragon to fight, or would you have tried to find a way around it?”

Cassius just kept walking.

Taran did his best to keep pace and not let his imagination get the better of him—but even Cassius had to briefly slow as another neat phalanx of Templars approached from the west, plate metal clanking as they moved in step. The mages clustered near the bell straightened at once, hands hovering at their staves, eyes narrowed in suspicion. All except one, whose back was turned to the Templars. She reached out and rapped the hilt of her small knife against the ancient metal, laughing at the hollow toll of the dragon’s bell.

One of her friends elbowed her in the side and she swung around, lips parted in question. When she spotted the approaching Templars, her grip on the blade shifted and that open, friendly expression melted into something fierce; something hateful. She bared her teeth and stiffened, tense as a crouching wolf.

 _I should do something_ , Taran thought, twisting around and walking backwards on the path to the mountain temple, eyes darting between the two groups. The Templars could have turned rank and file north at any moment, but they kept doggedly to their current trajectory. Taran watched as a few reached down to grip the hilts of swords; others glanced at each other with speaking looks. _I should say something._

But…what? What in the void could he do, say, to make this kind of antagonism right? And why would anyone bother listening?

“ _Taran!_ ” Cassius snapped, sounding truly angry now.

Taran sighed, turning, and hurried to keep pace with Cassius, leaving the potential stand-off behind. The truth was, there was _nothing_ he could do it make this right, and there was no one here who would listen even if he managed to scrabble together the right words. Why should they listen to him—the last son of a poor family; the dead end of House Trevelyan. A…what had Cassius called him? A gawping yokel, so sheltered that _this_ was his first time stepping foot past the broken moors of Ostwick.

This: the nexus of the mage-templar wars. The beginning (if all went as the Divine planned) of a new peace.

 _At least_ , Taran comforted himself, following his brother up the wide stone steps and into the temple proper, _you’re here to witness history._ Today wouldn’t be just another chapter in one of his books. Today he’d be allowed to live it, for good or for ill.

The inside of the Temple of Sacred Ashes was cool and clean, all polished stone and colored glass. It had been an abandoned ruin at one point—back when Warden Solona Amell had fought her way through with her companions at her side—but since its rediscovery, a legion of Chantry devotees had rebuilt it stone by stone. Each niche they passed, each painstakingly detailed tapestry they didn’t take time to admire, spoke of a hundred thousand pilgrims pouring prayers and resources and time into saving this holy place from the edge of ruin.

He wished he was more religious, so he could really appreciate what had to be the palpable touch of the Maker himself—but instead, Taran contented himself with admiring marble statues and trying to read the names carved in memorials along the wide flagstones, promising himself he’d come back someday to truly come to grips with this place and what it meant.

Or, even better, to explore around every corner for signs of the exciting trials the Hero of Ferelden had undergone.

Past the narthex and into the nave, the cavernous room was filled to bursting. The mages and Templars were milling in, of course, carefully keeping to opposite sides of the temple, but there were also city guardsmen and well-dressed nobles from many of the major houses across Ferelden, the Marches, and Orlais. There were guild representatives and chevaliers and merchantmen and even a few Dalish, keeping to the corners of the room with a wary eye for anyone who approached.

All of Thedas was here, it seemed; all of Thedas was waiting for the Divine to appear and ascend the steps to the chancel where she very well might finally put an end to the bloodshed once and for all.

“…Maker damn the lot of them,” Cassius was saying. He grabbed for Taran’s elbow, pulling him out of his tumbling daydreams and to an abrupt stop. Taran had a vague memory of his brother being kind once—years and years ago—but time and old ghosts had worn him down until he wore his bitterness like a new face. It had carved grooves into flesh, shadows beneath his eyes, wrinkles fanning out despite his relatively young age. Those strong fingers that had once taken his childish hand in theirs now dug hard into the muscle of Taran’s bicep.

It was too bad the Divine Mother couldn’t find a few words to bring peace to Cassius, too.

“You’d think they would have already eaten their fill, feasting off the corpse of the Trevelyan estates. Look at them, the lot of vultures.”

Taran followed Cassius’ gaze, spotting familiar faces in the crowd. He wasn’t often brought to meetings between local lords, but he _thought_ he may have spoken a word or two with the heirs of House Cyrene before. He’d certainly heard enough about them that he could practically recite their history by heart. “All the houses were invited, Cassius,” he pointed out.

Cassius’s upper lip curled. “But no one bloody well invited them to sit in the _Trevelyan_ pew.”

The big, boisterous family had spilled out of their own assigned seats, Taran noticed—and, yes, there were a couple sitting at the far end of the Trevelyan pew. But, “Their family is bigger than ours,” he had to point out. “There are ten of them here; the two of us don’t need an entire pew.”

The look Cassius shot him could have flayed skin from bone if he wasn’t all but immune to it by now. “It isn’t about what we need,” Cassius said, “it’s what we’re _due_. If the other houses see us allowing Cyrene to encroach on our territory, they’ll think us powerless.”

 _Who cares what they think_ , Taran didn’t say, because at least he knew enough about politics to realize he knew absolutely nothing at all. As the youngest of fourteen children—most of them long dead or scattered to all corners of the world—he’d never been expected to take over the stewardship of the family’s name. He’d never really been expected to do much of anything but stay out of people’s way. Which, since Cassius didn’t exactly need him underfoot for this…

“I’m sure you’ll handle it, brother,” Taran said loyally. “While you do, I was hoping I could maybe glance around. Pay my respects,” he added quickly.

Cassius waved him off, attention fixed on the Cyrene family and his own growing sense of injured self-importance. “Just be back in time for the processional,” he said. “I can’t be seen without a squire.”

“Of course!” he said, then darted off before Cassius could change his mind. He felt all of fifteen again—instead of an oh-so mature eighteen—filled to bursting with curiosity and excitement and a growing longing for adventure. Some of that gnawing need had been filled over the years by being able to help with the mage underground, but this— _this_ —was the kind of thing he’d truly longed for. To be in the middle of history as it happened. To witness the tectonic changes in the world and not be tucked away in a forgotten old mansion with its wind-swept moors and crashing sees and ghosts haunting his every step.

 _Josselyn_ _would have loved this_ , Taran thought, skirting about a group of nobles and casting a glance up up up at the high ceiling. She’d been dead for nearly longer than he could remember, but still, he couldn’t help but think she would have come exploring with him; he could practically feel the chill of her hand in his, the whisper of her breath at the back of his neck.

The main chapel was beautiful—a monument to both ancient and modern architecture—even crammed to bursting with people. Yet it wasn’t what he was more eager to see. _That_ was deeper in the mountainside, branching off from the temple in long, winding corridors. If he hurried, he might be able to glimpse a fraction of what the Hero had seen before he had to be back at his brother’s side.

He took the first left at the transept, ducking into a long hallway. There was another knot of mages here, and they all watched him warily as he passed. Taran kept his head down and his eyes on the flagstones, both to reassure them that no matter his size, he meant no threat and to make sure no one recognized him. The last thing he needed was for one of the apostates he’d helped to speak up where word could get to his brother; there’d be no coming back from that. If Cassius didn’t murder him right on the spot, he’d drag him immediately back to Ostwick and make the manor house his tomb.

They didn’t speak as he slipped by. His soft leather soles slapped against stone, echoing down the hall as he hurried his pace, then took the first turn, ducking out of sight. _Left, left_ , he thought, trying to commit his path to memory. He could easily see getting lost in the temple; it was _huge_ , sprawling out from its main chapel in a labyrinth of rooms and tunnels. On instinct, Taran took a turn that would bring him deeper into the mountain, then another, then another. He trailed his fingers along the cool stone walls as they grew less polished and more aged. As he explored deeper into the heart of the temple, he was leaving tapestries and delicate statues behind. There were fewer sconces lighting the way, and the low-flickering light cast long shadows across increasingly jagged floors.

This _had_ to be what the Warden had experienced.

He bit his lip, wishing he was still young enough to play-pretend. If so, he would be Warden Alistair, eyeing the darkness with wary experience, ready to go leaping into battle at the first sign of trouble. Or maybe he would be the Sister Leliana, clever knives spinning as quick as her knowing tongue.

“Probably you’d just be the dog,” he said dryly, then winced at the way his voice echoed far too loud down the halls. Taran paused, casting a quick glance over his shoulder…but no one poked their heads out of rough-hewn doorways. No one seemed to be around to hear.

From what felt like far, far away, drifting from outside the temple came the tolling of a bell. _The_ bell? Likely. He couldn’t hear the hubbub of the main chapel anymore, but it was likely deafening as everyone filed to their assigned seats. The Divine Justinia would be making her way inside soon, flanked by her Left and Right Hands, and shortly after _that_ each noble house would be expected to present itself to be tallied, followed by representatives from the guilds, the merchants, the mages and Templars.

 _Time to go_ , he thought, casting a wistful look over his shoulder toward a dark bend of hallway. There was so much more to be explored; there was so much he hadn’t _seen_. But Cassius would flay him alive if Taran left him waiting for even a moment.

He began to turn…then hesitated and turned back, smiling to himself. “Just around the corner,” Taran compromised, hurrying down the last bit of hallway to see where that final bend would take him. It was probably just _another_ long corridor, but if he didn’t check, he’d spend the rest of his life dreaming of what he could have seen. “Just around the corner, and then back to Cassius.”

His footsteps echoed around him, and the distant toll of the bell seemed to thrum deep inside his body. Humming almost, like electricity just beneath his skin. Taran shivered, trailing his fingers along the cold wall, letting the dreamlike excitement of the moment overtake him. For a brief flash, he _was_ Warden Alistair; exploring a ruin lost to legend, searching for the ashes that would save his dying kin, trusting that somehow he and the brave woman he followed would save the day no matter the odds. No matter how impossible the stakes. No matter—

He turned the corner.

It _wasn’t_ another long hall. Instead, after about twenty feel, a huge carved brass door stood firmly shut and gleaming in the fickle light. Taran cocked his head. The other doors he’d passed had been carved oak or—as he drew deeper into the bowels of the old temple—ancient rough-hewn wood. This was something different. It was…

“Beautiful,” he said, feeling like an idiot for the breathless murmur even as he drew closer. The door seemed to glow with its own warm light. Across its wide face were intricate figures locked in prayer and battle; they seemed to flow, one from the other, as he scanned the scene, trying to place the story it was telling.

There was Andraste, astride her warhorse and leading the head of her army. The exalted march? Maybe, but not all the pieces seemed to fit.

He stepped up to the door, fingertips brushing just over the carved bronze; that buzzing sense of excitement, of electricity building beneath his skin, was all the stronger now, as if it were feeding off his discovery. As if mere proximity to this artifact were enough to pluck magic from the air, despite the fact that he’d never shown his sisters’ gifts.

And then his shoe scuffed something on the rough stone and he looked down, surprised to see… Was that rust?

Taran crouched, aware of time slipping through his fingers but too curious to turn away now. He dragged his fingers through the fine snowdrift of dust, and sure enough the tips were tinged reddish-brown. He glanced up, brows knit, and spotted the thrown locks. They were huge and ancient—older than anything he had ever seen—and judging by the amount of rust gathering along the hinges, long-sealed. The fresh layer of rust littering the threshold could only mean the door had been thrown open for the first time in an age not _that_ far in the past…and the mystery of that discovery was just too strong to deny.

Straightening, Taran reached for the hooked door handle. He pressed one hand on the wide face of the door, just above blessed Andraste herself, and gave it a _shove_.

 _Just a glimpse_ , he told himself as the door swung wide, revealing the antechamber of a much, much larger room—a room almost as big as the main temple itself, where everyone waited with bated breath for Divine Justinia’s wisdom. Twin stone stairways hooked from the left and right of the antechamber, leading to a wrap-around balcony. The room beyond was dark, save for a strange flickering light just beyond Taran’s line of sight.

Red, and green, and charged with unmistakable power.

Taran hesitated at the sound of voices murmuring a foreign tongue, a chill working its way down his spine. Whatever he had stumbled in on—whatever he was witnessing—was not meant for his eyes or ears.

 _Go back_ a part of him whispered, even as an even larger part urged, _see what’s happening._

He wet his lips, straining to pick out sounds nearly lost beneath the deep tolling chant. There were footfalls, and someone breathing heavily, rapidly; animal-scared. A strange pop and sizzle of magic, and the hair along Taran’s arms stood up in instant response.

“Why are you doing this?” He heard a woman’s voice now, heavy with its Orlesian accent and threaded through with pain and fear and outrage. Taran’s heart lurched and began to race at the sound. No, no he definitely wasn’t supposed to be witnessing this. He should go, he should _run_ —but he was rooted to the spot, wishing he had his sword. An army. _Something._ “You, of all people.”

The chanting stopped, the hum of magic growing to fill its silence, ringing ringing ringing through Taran’s head—too loud, too invasive, like a tuning fork struck within the shell of his skull. Then, rising above it, that strange cold voice again, echoing deep inside him: “Keep the sacrifice still.”

_Sacrifice?_

Taran jerked in place as if struck by a stray bolt, startled. He heard the woman cry out in palpable terror, (“ _Someone, help me!_ ”) and without another thought, without a moment to grapple with the fact that he was nothing more than the dead end of a pauper family, without sword without plan without _anything_ but a sudden fierce drive to protect the unknown woman in so much pain, he was lunging forward, pushing his way into the main room.

“What’s going on here?” Taran demanded, gaze sweeping the cavernous space. He drew himself up tall, trying to look imposing, using his impressive height to his advantage as if he could bluff his way into victory—and immediately lost all momentum as he stared, dumbfounded, at the strange tableau waiting for him.

It was a scene from a nightmare. An all-too-real haunting terrifying enough to steal the breath from his lungs in one sharp jab. He only had a moment to take in the scene: Divine Justinia, dressed in holy regalia, held aloft by some pulsing red magic. Around her, figures in dark robes, staves in one hand, bloody knives in the other, cowled heads turning as one toward him.

And, just beyond Justinia—tall and strange and skeletal, with jagged red crystals sprouting from his mostly-human face—was…

Was…

By the Maker, he had no idea what that thing was, but he knew it was going to haunt his dreams for a very long time to come.

Struck dumb, frozen with shock, Taran stared at the macabre creature. He was holding a glowing green orb in one bony claw, dark eyes glittering as he glared at Taran across the nave. Justinia looked so small in comparison—fragile, weak—which only made it all the more shocking when she gave a cry and wrenched her arm free of that strange red magic, backhanding the glowing orb out of the creature’s hands.

It went spinning, hitting the floor and rolling wildly. Several of the cloaked figured lunged for it, but they were too far away, too tangled up in their own bloody ritual to intercept. Taran reacted without thinking, darting to grab the orb as it rolled past, aware of shouts and cries and demon hisses, like nails raking down his spine. He didn’t know what would come next; he had no way of knowing what sort of dark magic he had unwittingly pitted himself against. He just knew that Divine Justinia was counting on him, and he _would not_ let her down, even if—

 _“NO!”_ the creature howled, lurching toward him, but he was too late. Far, far too late. Taran’s fingers closed around the glowing orb …

…and the world was suddenly lost in an explosion of green light.


	9. Dorian

“Nice trick you’ve got there,” Dorian said, feeling testy. He didn’t look up from his book, no matter that it was little more than snatches of familiar text and blurred white pages. Funny thing, how the Fade could plumb memories and dreams and the depths of men’s desires, but it couldn’t seem to pull together a fully functional library. “The tolling bells and all. Was that your version of a friendly knock?”

Feynriel paused on the threshold and blinked owlishly at him. “No,” he said. Then, tilting his head: “I mean… What?”

Dorian watched the other man out of the corner of his eyes, even as he casually turned the page, pretending to be engrossed. Feynriel was still dressed in the elaborate Tevinter robe he’d likely worn for the evening, hair pulled in a fetchingly intricate series of braids. There was kohl about his eyes and gold glinting on one bared bicep; he was, undeniably, beautiful, though it was painfully unlikely he’d ever see that for himself.

Also? He was looking increasingly awkward, as if he _still_ hadn’t figured out how to pull off the more complicated dress robes no matter how many years he’d swum with Tevinter sharks.

Dorian sighed and closed the book over his thumb, letting it dissipate in a puff of smoke. He arched a brow at the way Feynriel shifted back and forth in the doorway. “The bells,” Dorian repeated, gesturing. “I assumed they were your way of announcing yourself. Come in; there’s no need to clutter up the doorway. Nice robes,” he added as Feynriel moved across the marble floor. “Fetching. Should I play the ardent admirer tonight?”

Feynriel nearly tripped, looking down—then made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “ _These_ ,” he said, form shifting as effortlessly as if this were _his_ dream and not Dorian’s, “are not my fault.”

“I would never assume otherwise,” Dorian said, watching as Feynriel gracelessly flopped down into an instantly-materializing armchair. The robes were now a comfortably worn green tunic and tan leathers; his hair was back in its low ponytail, a few ash-blond strands escaping. He’d forgotten the smoky black kohl ringing his half-elven eyes, but Dorian decided not to mention it. He had no interest in actually seducing his friend, but it certainly made a pretty enough picture. “Long day?”

“The _longest_.” Feynriel wrinkled up his nose…then cocked his head. “I didn’t hear any bells, by the way.”

Dorian frowned. They had been faint but impossible to ignore, tolling deep enough to make his body quake with the reverberations. That sort of thing usually didn’t slip into his dreams without cause. “Hm,” he said, and filed the mystery away for later. “Ah well, no matter; you’re here now. Why?”

The corner of Feynriel’s mouth lifted into a quirking smile. “Oof, what a welcome. You’re in a fine mood tonight. Should I beat a hasty retreat before you leave claw marks down my back?”

“My dear Feynriel.” Dorian lowered his voice to a husky near-purr, lashes dropping. He hadn’t given himself over to mindless debauchery since his father had almost…since Lucia had…since _that night_ , but the old tricks were still close at hand. “I assure you, if I was inclined to leave my mark, you would _not_ be running away.”

Feynriel just rolled his eyes, as immune to Dorian’s charm as always. “Save it for your Voice,” he said…then paused at whatever flicker of emotion he saw cross Dorian’s face. “Oh,” Feynriel said, beginning to grin, “ _that’s_ why you’re in such a sour mood. You know, I probably should have guessed.”

Dorian stood, smoothing his own immaculate robes with all the dignity he could muster. “You are imagining things,” he lied.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not,” Feynriel countered. That crooked grin widened, brightening his narrow face. It would have been insufferable if Dorian wasn’t so inclined to forgive Feynriel pretty much anything. They’d kept in touch after their first fateful meeting, exchanging letters as they each studied under their respective masters. The first time Feynriel had tiptoed into Dorian’s dreams had been…Maker, was it right after Alexius’s wife passed? Yes, he remembered Feynriel doing his socially awkward best to walk him through his own grief and fear for Alexius and Felix.

He kept coming around after that, maybe once a week or so, just to check in. Surprising, that a Marcher somniari raised in some dirty little alienage would become such a mainstay of his life, walking alongside him in his darkest moments: the attack on Felix, Alexius’s descent, Dorian’s own self-destructive year of excess…his father and the night Lucia saved him from a fate worse than death. And now, Feynriel often popped in to keep him company as Dorian scoured every damn hill and crevasse in the Free Marches, searching for—

“I take it you haven’t found him, then?”

Dorian pretended to study the nearest bookshelf, fingertip trailing over the ancient leather-bound copies with titles like: _He’s Onto You,_ and _Stop Being Such a Damn Fool_.

He sighed. Blasted subconscious.

“The Free Marches are admittedly larger than they appear on any reasonable map,” Dorian admitted, pulling a book with the promising title _Maybe If You Weren’t A Complete Wastrel You Would Have Found Him By Now_. “Too many shorelines; too many depressing little villages to choose from. Besides,” he added, sinking back into his chair, “he’s left the Marches.”

Feynriel’s brows rose. “You’re sure?”

“Why do you think I’m here with you instead of oogling my fill?” he countered, flippant. The past few months had been spent trying to take in all the details he’d devoted his entire life to _ignoring_. Funny—he’d always been so determined never to discover where his _unun vinctum_ might be, terrified that his parents could somehow pluck the knowledge from his brain and drag Taran to Tevinter against his will. Now that he was free of all that, now that he finally wanted to track down his Voice, to see him with his own two eyes and…other vaguely embarrassing romantic notions…he felt like he was starting from day one.

 _Worse_ than day one. At least as a spoiled altus, he’d had a home and a bed and three square meals a day. This whole impoverished apostate thing was not at all agreeable.

Dorian grumbled beneath his breath, flipping the book open.

Feynriel made a sympathetic face, swinging his legs up to hook his heels on the lip of the chair, sharp chin resting on those knobby knees. He wrapped his arms around himself. “He’s shifting sleep cycles, isn’t he?” he asked. “I _hate_ when that happens. My Voice,” even after all this time, Feynriel still wouldn’t share the name, “travels here, there, bloody everywhere. It’s okay when he sticks to a single country—or near-abouts—but it feels like his group can’t even keep in the same _continent_ for a month at a time.”

“What do you do?” Dorian was forced to ask. It was endlessly frustrating to find Taran slipping out of the Fade so shortly after Dorian found him every night.

“Take lots of naps,” Feynriel said—then laughed at whatever he saw in Dorian’s expression. “Well it works! And in my defense, it’s all part of my training, anyway. You can’t very well become a master somniari without traveling through dreams. And to do that, you have to sleep.”

He supposed that made a certain amount of sense, even if the advice wasn’t exactly what Dorian would have called _helpful_. He sighed, absently flipping through pages without focusing on any one. “On the bright side, at least I have a fairly strong idea where he might be headed,” Dorian mused. “Another night or two and I’ll know for certain.” Taran’s dreams—what little Dorian had been able to catch of them—had been filled to the brim lately with ships and docks and endearing excitement.

“Oh?” Feynriel asked, curious.

Dorian raised a single brow.

Feynriel cocked his head, not understanding, not understanding, not… His eyes widened. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, suddenly getting it. “ _Oh_ , oh, you mean you think he’s— He wouldn’t be going to the conclave, would he?”

“And why not?” Dorian said. “He’s the noble son of some…backward Marcher house or another. Your Divine is making a big scene of her act of reconciliation.” He sighed and closed the book, letting it disappear between his hands as well. “Once I’m certain, I suppose there’s nothing to it but charter a ship and hope I can survive the stench of unwashed savage and wet dog. From everything my friends have told me, I can’t expect anything less from Ferelden. Of course,” he added with a crooked smile, “my friends are also terrible people who are prone to exa—”

“Dorian,” Feynriel interrupted. He dropped his feet to the floor, leaning in with an earnest, anxious expression that immediately stilled the flippant words on Dorian’s tongue. “You can’t go to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Dorian tilted his head. “Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s dangerous,” Feynriel said. When Dorian just arched a brow, he added, “Because it’s overflowing with Templars and rebel mages and Chantry officials and— And all kinds of people who have every reason to hate each other and, even more, hate _you_ on sight. Even if there’s no blood shed between those factions, all _three_ would be all too happy to see someone like you become a mutual punching bag. They might even get along long enough to decide how to string you up as a warning to other magisters.”

“And people say the Imperium’s good for nothing,” Dorian teased. “Why, here we are bringing people together left and right: how marvelous.”

“Dorian…”

He waved off Feynriel’s concern, expression softening. “Your worry over my safety is gratefully noted,” he said. “There are only a depressingly small handful of people left in this world who’d give two figs about whether my head stayed attached to my shoulder or not.” That may have been an exaggeration, but he’d been in a dour, self-pitying mood of late. “But you may have forgotten that I am _terribly_ clever; I’ll be able to move amongst the rebel mages with no one the wiser.”

Feynriel rubbed the meat of his palms against his eyes with an aggrieved sigh. He looked worn, Dorian noted; almost fragile. He’d never known the other man when he _wasn’t_ coiled tense as a spring ready to snap, but Feynriel was nothing if not a scrapper, even tossed amongst the worst Tevinter had to offer. This slump-shouldered version of him had Dorian up on his feet and crossing the pavestones to press a reassuring hand to his mostly-insubstantial shoulder.

  
Feynriel didn’t look up.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Dorian said, clearly and carefully—letting down every last guard so Feynriel could know just how much he meant it. “But you truly do not have to worry yourself over me like this. If I do follow him to the Temple, I will take _every_ precaution. I haven’t survived this long only to make myself a bloody chew toy for Templars and idiot apostates, have I?”

“We’re both so far away from all the craziness going on,” Feynriel pointed out. He dropped his hands and looked up, earnest—tired—bright eyes ringed with shadow. As if he was letting the weight of the entire world rest on his skinny shoulders. “It’s easy to underestimate just how bad it’s getting, but Dorian… I’ve been in their dreams. I’ve been watching as this whole thing unfolded, and it’s… It’s not going to get better. This conclave? It’s going to _fail_.”

He squeezed the ghosted shoulder again before letting go, tipping his head in question as one of the library walls silently crumbled. It now opened out onto a terrace, the gilt railing gracefully unscrolling in slow motion, like flowers in bloom. “You have never played the pessimist,” Dorian said as Feynriel stood, following him out into the bright sunlight. With a wave of Dorian’s hand, the sun sank behind distant mountains and stars burst overhead in firecracker shimmers. “Quite the opposite; where’s your usual faith in human, elf, dwarf, and qunari-kind?”

“It blew up with the Kirkwall Chantry,” Feynriel said bitterly, then sighed. He moved to the edge of the now-balcony, leaning his arms on the gold railing. At a single glance, a dogwood grew from seed to sapling to fully-grown tree, usually tall; delicate pink petals floated in the breeze Feynriel created through Dorian’s dreamscape. “That isn’t fair. But things are different this time, Dorian. The _people_ are different. They’re…so angry and scared.”

Dorian settled in next to his friend, resting his weight on his folded arms, looking out across the world they absently created together. Whenever he let himself pause to think about it, it was a true marvel how Feynriel could shape the dreams of others with so little effort. If he were honest with himself, it was terrifying, too—if they weren’t friends, what sort of secrets could the other man be plucking from his mind?

Which he supposed was part of what had Feynriel so ruffled tonight. “You’ve been going deep into their dreams?”

Feynriel shrugged a single shoulder. “Yes. Deeper than I’ve ever gone before. This war…it’s not going to end because the Divine wants it to. Even if a quarter, more, of the mages and Templars involved are sick of the bloodshed, there are so many others who just want to…to _force_ the issue until the other side is so beaten there’s no coming back. And I don’t blame them—the mages.” He gave an unsteady, unhappy laugh. “I mean, look at what my mother and I did to keep me out of the Kirkwall circle. I _understand_. But it’s starting to feel like a lot of them are so angry that _they_ don’t understand just how bad this can get for both sides.”

“A pyrrhic victory,” Dorian said, and Feynriel sighed again, head dropping forward. “You believe that even if the mages win this thing, they will have lost?”

“And the other way around. Too many of the leaders are too…lost in this. The conclave is just going to give them more chances to try to level the playing field in either—both—directions.”

Interesting. It wasn’t as if Dorian hadn’t considered that the Divine’s little intervention could become an elaborate game of assassin, but there was a great deal of difference between theory and confirmation. Feynriel would know; he would have seen the plots unfolding in dreams. “Have you considered doing your other little trick?” Dorian asked, keeping his voice even. Across the mountains, from far, far away, came the second tolling of some great bell. Or was that his imagination? Strange. “Stepping into the minds of their leaders and moving things around? You could single-handedly bring peace to all of Thedas if you took enough naps.”

Feynriel shot him a dirty look…but he didn’t look quite as offended at the suggestion as Dorian would have expected. Feynriel hated the darker, deeper aspects of his power. He hated how often his master tried to subtly pressure him into abusing them; he’d admitted to hating _himself_ those few times he’d confessed to being tempted.

Now, there was something a little ashamed but defiant about his expression, even as his cheeks heated with color.

“Ah,” Dorian said slowly. “But of course, you’ve already tried that.”

“Can you blame me?” Feynriel shot back. “With so many lives at stake? Of _course_ I want them to find a peaceful solution that ensures mages their continued freedom. It’s just…” He sighed and dropped his head forward again, silky blond strands falling across his cheeks. “It’s like trying to change a tapestry by pulling at individual threads. I have no idea if I’m making an impact or if I’m just unraveling the whole thing bit by bit. And even when I do manage to convince one person—a handful of _important_ people—there’s always another dozen or more who are ready to shout them down and take over. Hawke says I should just—”

Dorian arched a brow. “Your Kirkwall friend? The Champion?” He’d heard the stories, both from official sources and Feynriel, of course.

Feynriel shrugged a shoulder in agreement. “Hawke says I should try talking to the various factions instead of shifting pieces of their minds around, but then, that didn’t work out so well for him, did it?”

He had to snort at that. “No, I imagine not. Though considering everything you’ve told me, I’m surprised he and his Voice aren’t elbowing their way into this whole conclave mess.”

“Oh, they are,” Feynriel said offhandedly. “They just got delayed by bad weather crossing the Waking Sea, so they’ll probably arrive a couple of days into the talks.” He paused, expression growing dour again. “I hope they manage to get there before people start trying to assassinate each other under the guise of hashing out peace. If anyone can put a stop to this whole mess, it’s probably Hawke and Fenris.”

“And not you?” Dorian said.

Feynriel just rolled his eyes, as if the idea were unthinkable.

There were so many things he could say to that—so many things he honestly _wanted_ to say to that—but Dorian had never really trusted himself with finding words of comfort. He was funny, he was clever, he was cutting, he was brilliant…but gentle? Kind? That was a higher and more difficult bar to clear, and he wasn’t at all sure he trusted himself to come up with what Feynriel needed to hear.

 _If Taran were here_ , Dorian thought wryly, _I could just waggle my brows at him in question and let him take over; Maker knows between us he’s the good one_.

But Taran wasn’t here. Taran was half a world away, perhaps wading into this whole bloody mess. And until Dorian had (finally) found him and (finally) met those warm golden eyes and (finally) dared to admit to all the things he’d been systematically smothering in his heart of hearts for decades now, Dorian was on his own.

“You’ll figure it out,” he settled on. “Or your friends will make a perfectly timed arrival and knock a few heads together. Or,” he had to add, ruthlessly honest, “nothing any of us can do will make an impact at all, and the mages and Templars will start conflict after bloody conflict until we have another grand massacre in the name of peace.”

“You’re so reassuring, Dorian,” Feynriel said dryly. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “Well,” he countered, leaning indolently against the half-wall, watching the stars burst in brilliant showers of light overhead, “I _do_ so try to obli—”

And just like that—with no warning, no sense of oncoming danger, nothing, _nothing_ —a scream, _Taran’s_ scream, ripped across the face of the Fade. It tore through the night sky, leaving a jagged hole in its wake: an open wound blooming dark with terrible fear as Dorian jerked up in surprise.

“Taran?” he cried, as if the other man could hear him.

By his side, Feynriel was looking around, startled, like _he_ could hear Taran too—which bloody well should have been impossible. “What’s going on?”

Dorian ignored him. “ _Taran!_ ” He turned in a desperate circle, searching the billowing black clouds as the library, the terrace, the beautiful scenery bled dark with Dorian’s fear. Maker, but he could _feel_ his Voice’s pain, echoing all around him: an endless scream, as if the Fade itself were twisting and writhing in some unknowable agony. “Taran, where the bloody void are you?” he cried. He stumbled forward into a run, but he didn’t know where to _go_. Taran’s agony was all around, coming from every direction, so real he could almost reach out and touch. “Taran!”

“He’s _here_ ,” Feynriel said, stumbling after him. He looked like a spooked animal, all pale skin and awkward angles, staring out at the darkness with the first real fear Dorian had ever seen on him. “Fuck, how is he here?”

Dorian grabbed onto that thin thread of hope. “Like you are?” he demanded, catching Feynriel’s arm. Taran was no mage—no somniari—but maybe…maybe…fuck, maybe _something_. He’d work out the theory later; now he needed to find his Voice or go mad for searching. That single agonized cry kept stretching around him, as if the Fade itself were vibrating at the same terrible pitch. Fear clawed cold at Dorian’s throat. “ _You’re_ here.”

Feynriel was already shaking his head—trembling, hands up to block out the scream. “No, no, this isn’t—not like me. This isn’t right, this isn’t natural, he shouldn’t—Maker, I can’t think. The screams are—”

Screams. Screams, yes, there was a woman too, beneath Taran’s cry; they were both screaming, and time had stumbled still as the Fade shaped around that tangible pain, that fear, pulsing with sickening green light. He could _feel_ Taran so close they were almost touching, the bond vibrating in Dorian’s chest like a tuning fork striking a single, desperate note.

_Taran. Taran. Taran Taran Taran._

“Help me find him, damn you,” Dorian snarled, turning, searching. He tried to shape the Fade, to force Taran to become clear, but all he felt was a sense of, of, of _falling_. He was falling, and there were whispers in the dark, and sickly green light blooming from the core of this magical world as something terrible ripped into its heart. “ _Help me_.”

And then—

—like a shock of lightning, straight through his core—

—Dorian _saw_ him.

Taran stood at the base of a distant mountain, hand lifting to cover his eyes. That hollow scream still rang out across the tearing Fade, but _he was there_ , and _he was whole_ , and Dorian nearly stumbled at the gut-punch of relief. He thought he might have cried out, but Taran didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder as if at the sound of footsteps—and then he was _running_.

“We have to,” Dorian said, staggering after him. The Fade had never felt more like a dream. Always before, he’d had some control: he could shape worlds and build monuments to his whims, strong enough in his magic to have little fear. But here, now, when he was so desperate to reach his Voice, he felt powerless. The ground turned to quicksand beneath his feet; the air thickened, until each movement was dearly bought. Ahead, Taran was scrambling up the sheer face of the mountain, running for his life—shining brilliant gold and green, the center point of the whole damned world. Dorian could feel a part of himself unraveling, the unfinished bond he’d carried within his chest all his life unfolding piece by piece inside his chest in response, and Maker, but he was on fire inside, he was powerless to stop it, he was—

The shining light that was his Voice flared like a dying star, whiting out the world around him…and just as suddenly as Taran appeared, he was gone.

 _Gone_.

“No,” Dorian gasped, staggering down onto his hands and knees as the strange weight of the Fade suddenly reverted, becoming normal again. Feynriel collapsed just behind him, gasping in heaving breaths, but all Dorian could hear was the ringing in his ears, the thundering of his pulse, the… _utter silence_ where seconds ago, there had been Taran.

It wasn’t just a return to how things were before, either. He could feel the half-formed bond aching and wounded in his chest, shattering apart in horrified heartbreak as Dorian slumped over onto his back and stared up at the silent Fade. He stretched, _searching_ , eyes beginning to burn with the first shocked tears when he met nothing but indifferent silence.

Taran had been there. Taran had been there, and now he was gone, and the world echoed dark where he should have been.

“Dorian,” Feynriel said—tears in his throat, as if he understood at the exact same moment Dorian did. As if he could somehow sense the complete fullness of his loss. Of Taran’s _death._ “Oh Maker. I am so sorry.”

 _No_ , Dorian thought, staring up at the blank sky—shattered across the ground as if he’d been taken too. _No, no, he can’t be gone. He can’t be. I never_ —

What? Never _what_?

Saw him.

Touched him.

Told him.

 _Knew him_. All his life, Dorian had tried to keep his Voice locked away in fear, and now, when he was finally ready to give in and unlock that door, to be in bloody love and all that wonderful nonsense from those long-ago fairy tales…Taran was gone. He was gone. He was _gone_.

And there was nothing left but silence.

“I’m so sorry,” Feynriel said again, caught with him in the shallows of grief as the sheer weight of Dorian’s loss came crashing down around him. “Dorian, Maker, I’m so, so bloody _fucking_ sorry.”


	10. Various

**Taran:**

He was raw and aching, body little more than one continuous bruise, headache pounding at his temples. But the worst part—the most frightening—the most strange by far—was that insistent buzzing tension building beneath the skin of his palm. It felt…

There weren’t words for how it felt. Still, as Taran waited chained in the dungeon surrounded by armed guards (pointing bared steel at him as if he were somehow _dangerous)_ , he tried to fumble for some description, some scrap of memory, _something._ Maker, anything would do if it would just help him understand what was happening.

It was like… Like he’d cut his skin with his sharpest blade and packed the open wound with lightning. Or like a sliver of lyrium had been inserted along the curve of one of the delicate bones in his palm. Or—

The buzzing tension sparked suddenly, green fire erupting, and Taran cried out at the shock of pain. He jerked his hand protectively against his body, chains clanking, then immediately thrust it away. Maker, was it dangerous? Was he infected with some kind of magic? Was, was he, was this, would he ever…

“Fuck,” Taran breathed through the worst of the pain, bearing down against the childish impulse to cry out—aware of those four well-armed men inching their blades closer to him as if they were afraid as well. (Afraid of _him_.) “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The green fire sputtered and died, curled within the meat of his palm, but he could still feel it buzzing. He could still feel the tension growing, burning just out of sight like the embers of a fire that only needed a single breath to spark light again.

Distantly, he heard the jingle of keys and the sound of a lock turning. He looked up, fingers curled into a fist, and fought to keep the sudden burst of hope from overwhelming him. Because oh, _oh,_ maybe it was his brother come at last. Maybe Cassius had finally managed to convince…whoever it was who’d taken him prisoner…that this was all some terrible mistake.

Maybe he was finally, finally going to be allowed to go _home_.

But the figure who stepped through the door wasn’t Cassius. She was tall and broad across the shoulders, severe face beautiful even as she turned a hard gaze on him. The sigil she wore across her breastplate was instantly familiar: a Seeker.

Taran’s stomach bottomed out.

The four guards snapped to attention as she stalked into the room, followed by a lithe shadow in elegant leathers. The cowl was drawn up as if to shield her face, but Taran caught the impression of sharp features, intelligent eyes, a flash of red hair.

He’d never seen the famous Leliana in person—he’d never left Trevelyan House until this fateful trip—but the pieces were falling into place all too easily. This was the Left and Right Hands of the Divine. This was as serious as it got.

Whatever they thought he’d done, it must have been terrible.

They stepped into the room silently, eyes locked on him. Leliana moved back to a shadowed corner, gaze dropping to his bound hands. The Seeker circled behind him slowly, menace in every step; he could feel her eyes boring into him even as she passed out of sight. The dungeon echoed with her footsteps, the soft clank of armor, the distant drip drip drip of condensation. He swore he could hear his own heart racing in his chest.

Finally, after what felt like an age, the Seeker leaned close to his ear. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she said.

Leliana stepped forward, moving with such easy grace, but she wasn’t the hero out of his stories now. There was menace in her cold, flat gaze; hatred. Taran met her furious gaze with as much raw honesty as he had inside him, willing her to see the truth writ there. _Whatever happened, whatever atrocity you think I’m responsible for, I swear it was not me._

The Seeker was still talking, moving around him with predatory steps. “The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” The shock of that had him jerking to look at her even as she jabbed a finger toward his face with barely leashed violence. “Except for _you_.”

That wasn’t possible. “What do you mean everyone is dead?” He was asleep. He was in some terrible Fade dream and he would wake up any moment to find Cassius snarling at him to hurry.

They were going to the Conclave today. They were…they…they _had gone_ to the Conclave, and he had… He… _What_ had he done? _What_ had happened? Taran’s breaths quickened as he realized, Maker, he had no idea. The memories that should have been there were gone,

The woman must have read some of that mounting panic on his face. She lunged forward, grabbing his bound hands and giving them a vicious shake as green fire erupted. “Explain this,” she said, face cast in queasy shadow and light.

“I…” Taran began, frightened, sickened, grieving. Cassius. If the entire Conclave was gone, then that meant _Cassius_ was gone too. It had been a very long time since his older brother had looked on him with kindness, but the shock of sudden loss was still overwhelming. Taran curled his fingers into a fist, eyes burning hot as he tried to ignore the pain, inside and out. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you _can’t_?”

Everything was moving too fast. Taran looked between them—looked toward the men guarding him—and saw nothing but pain and rage. Even if he could answer the Seeker’s questions, he wasn’t convinced it would do any good. ( _It won’t bring anyone back._ ) “I don’t know what that is,” Taran said, “or how it got there.”

The Seeker lunged for him again, sudden and vicious in her fury. “You’re lying!” she cried, hands like steel around his biceps, yanking him forward.

Leliana grabbed Cassandra by the arm and pulled her back. “We need him, Cassandra!” she snapped, meeting Taran’s eyes. There was judgment there, cold and calculating. Pain, too, hidden so deftly Taran might have missed it.

But no. No, he could feel it humming between the three of them: a raw nerve, a shared loss. Trauma and fear and a fumbling desire to find answers somewhere, anywhere. He wished he could tell them what they needed to hear. He wished— He—

Taran dropped his gaze, hands curling and uncurling. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured, hollow. “All those people…dead?”

There was a beat of silence, the tension fading into something quieter. Then: “Do you remember what happened? How all this began?” Leliana asked. Her voice was pitched lower, some of that sharpness gone.

The Seeker—Cassandra—began to pace the room again, circling around him, but the fury that had sparked her outburst was banked. She seemed more frustrated than murderous now, as if she’d looked into his thoughts and read innocence there.

Or, Maker, was he just being fanciful? That seemed too much like raw hope to be real.

Taran swallowed, focusing. “I remember,” he began, fighting to recall the details. “…running. Things were chasing me. And then…” He closed his eyes, picturing it. A mountain. Scuttling in the darkness. A glowing light. “A woman?”

He looked up just in time to see Leliana jerk back. “A _woman_?”

“She reached out to me,” Taran tried to explain, “but then…” He trailed off with a hopeless shrug. The rest of his memory faded away into a burst of green-white light. He could no more say what happened next than he could read the future in the twisting clouds.

Cassandra stopped her restless pacing, staring down at him. Her expression was stoney, impassive, but her eyes burned like coals. He met her gaze straight-on, letting her read whatever she needed in his expression. He had nothing to hide; he didn’t remember enough to _want_ to hide.

Finally, jerkily, she nodded and turned back to the other woman. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” she said. “I will take him to the rift.”

_The rift?_

Taran watched, heart in his throat, feeling a decade older—aching with loss and fear and burning pain radiating from the strange gash in his palm—as Leliana nodded once and left. Cassandra watched her go, straight-backed as any soldier, before turning back to Taran. She studied him for another long minute before tightening her jaw and coming to unlock the chains that kept him anchored to the floor. The heavy metal cuffs remained about his wrists, but he was able to struggle to his feet with her help.

“What did happen?” Taran asked. He knew he should bite his tongue—knew she was still so very angry, even if some of that fury seemed to have been shunted away from him—but he had to know. The images tumbling through his head were a thousand times worse than any reality could possible match.

Right?

Cassandra shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Taran’s stomach dropped. “It will be easier to show you,” she said before leading him out from his makeshift prison and into the end of the world.

**Varric:**

“Shoulda run when you had the chance, kid,” Varric said at the sound of a footfall behind him.

There was a beat of silence, then a soft laugh. “All right,” Taran said, moving to join him by the fire. “I almost hate to ask, but how did you know it was me?”

Varric arched a single brow. “A good con never shares his tricks,” he said. Then, laughing at the kid’s face, he added, “Spotted someone up there spotting _you_. There’s only one person in Haven who inspires that kind of open reverence.”

Taran made a face, slumping down onto the log seat next to Varric. He’d been upgraded into a new set of armor, Varric noted—sturdier, more suited to his big frame and powerful blows than the hand-me-down green leathers he’d been sporting. With the bronze-gold gleam of the armor against the warm tan of his skin and the glints of gold in his hair and eyes, he seemed like a statue come to life. Like one of those golden idols peppering Orzammar.

Funny. If the kid was a dwarf, no way he wouldn’t be made Paragon by now. Closing that main rift alone would’ve been more than enough.

“How you hanging in there?” he asked, grabbing a stick and poking at the fire. Sparks rose, swirling into the cold air.

Taran just shrugged a shoulder; the gesture nearly made him look his age for once. “I’m fine.”

Varric hummed a noncommittal reply, glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. A week ago, two, he would’ve called bullshit (in his head, at least, if not upfront and outloud.) But now… Taran looked like hell, still, but a damn sight better than he had since tumbling out of that hole in the sky. The dark shadows were fading and that haunted, guilty look was leaving his eyes. He looked almost like he was edging toward…if not happy, then at least marginally satisfied with what they were managing to accomplish.

Varric guessed he understood the feeling. As bad as things were in the Hinterlands—as tough as it was trudging through battle after battle and seeing desperation around every corner—it was doing all of them good to _do_ some good. Finding Dennett, clearing out Templar bases, hunting _bloody rams_ and blankets and caches of supplies to help the refugees…little by little, they were making a positive change.

Not to mention, with every rift the kid managed to close, they were literally knitting the world back together. There was something really powerful about that feeling, even if it also made Varric want to run and hide beneath the nearest rock.

“You know, it’s funny,” Varric said, staring into the fire and thinking wistfully of the world, the life, he’d once known. He wondered how Kirkwall was faring. He wondered if his friends were still alive. Shit, he hoped Hawke and Fenris had made it out of Anderfels okay. “A few years ago, I never would have gone in for all this _making a difference_ shit. All I needed was some coin, good ale, and a fire and I was happy to let the world go to hell around me.” His lips twisted into a crooked grin. “You’re a bad influence, kid.”

Taran just tilted his head, studying Varric’s face for what felt like a long minute. The fire popped and cracked before them, spitting sparks up toward the star-flung sky. “You know, it’s funny,” Taran finally said, deliberately echoing Varric’s words. “But I’m pretty sure you’re full of crap, _old man_.”

That surprised a laugh out of him—a real laugh, the first in what had to be weeks. He choked on it, lifting a hand to cough into his fist as Taran slowly began to grin. Wider and wider, dimples flashing at the corners of his mouth, and shit, that boy could shine as bright as the sun—no wonder people kept whispering he was the chosen of Andraste. (No wonder, no matter how hard Varric tried to stuff the uncomfortable feeling down, he couldn’t help but feel a hint of…awe, reverence, _whatever_ , himself.) “All right, you’ve got me,” he had to admit. “I’ve always been a sucker for a lost cause and a tragic tale.”

“Is that what we are then?” Taran asked, still smiling—not taking it to heart. That kind of optimism might just see them through some of this darkness, at least until things inevitably fell apart. “A lost cause?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you your stories, kid?” Varric said, smiling back, charmed and sad and all twisted up inside despite himself. He remembered the first time he’d stumbled across Aidan and Carver Hawke, all those years ago. He remembered the light that used to shine so bright and almost innocent in Aidan’s eyes. _Shit_. Things certainly took a rocky turn or ten for _him_. “You’re smack-dab right in the center of an epic tragedy. There’s no escaping your fate now, I’m afraid.”

Taran just shrugged philosophically, spreading his hands before the fire. “I guess I’m doomed, then,” he said with the kind of easy acceptance of the young. “At least I’m marching toward my inevitable unhappy ending in good company.”

Varric looked him over “Yeah,” he said, all of a sudden feeling surprisingly choked up. He wasn’t much of a believer, and he wasn’t much of a joiner, and he certainly wasn’t big on signing up for epic crash-and-burn failures, but he knew his stories; he knew his heroes. And from what he’d seen over the past few weeks—the crazy shit he’d already experienced as a matter of course—inevitable tragedy or not, this kid…this sweet, shining _kid_ …was worth following. Hell, maybe even to the bitter end. “Well. Here’s to good company.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the fire reach up up up toward the huge expanse of stars—the open wound in the sky an inescapable reminder of exactly what impossible odds they had left to face.

**Krem:**

Krem spotted movement on the cliffs overlooking the beach.

“We got company, Chief!” he called, sword and buckler already out. He swung, parrying the ‘Vint’s blow, and pushed back with a loud clang of steel on steel. It was pissing rain, a good half of it coming at him sideways; he squinted against the drops gathering on his lashes and swung again, taking advantage of an opening. The grunt of pain and the scrape of steel through cheap plate mail was one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. “Chief?”

“Yeah, I see them,” the Iron Bull grunted. He gripped the end of his heavy maul and swung it wide, wild, denting helms and crushing unguarded skulls. Dalish easily ducked out of the way, a crack of lightning springing from her fingers. “Pretty hard to—oh no you don’t—miss.”

Krem slammed his shield into a ‘Vint’s sword arm, tipping the edge to clip his fingers. If he aimed it just right…ha! There! The ‘Vint cursed and dropped his sword from suddenly-numb fingers, giving Krem the opening he needed. “Wasn’t talking about these bastards,” he said, as casually, as easily, as if they were trading bullshit over beers. In a real fight, with a real challenge, he’d learned to keep his trap shut and focus on the task at hand. But this crew of Tevinter extremists were barely strong enough to wipe his ass, much less kick it. “Up on the cliff, coming down fast. There’s a mage with them.”

The Bull grabbed one of the men by his (bare) head, huge hand wrapping over the skull. He lifted him up, ignoring the daggers the little asshole tried to swipe at him, and bodily flung him toward the churning sea. “I _see_ them, Krem,” he said; there was chaos all around them, but the fight seemed to be waning. The Chargers made quick work of fools. “Two warriors, an archer, a mage. One of ‘em’s wearing Seeker gear, and I’d bet my balls the kid beside her’s that Herald everyone’s gone on about. Looks like they took you up on our offer after all.” He smirked. “I may have one eye, but it’s a damn good one.”

“It’s a damn something, all right,” Krem agreed easily. Now that he was pausing enough to get a clear look, he recognized the Herald and the Seeker from his short visit to Haven. He hadn’t been convinced the Inquisition would come; he was glad to be proven wrong. “Good timing.”

“Good timing,” the Bull agreed. Then he laughed. “Now let’s give them a show. _Chargers!_ ”

Krem called out with the rest of them—a deep, guttural roar rising from his chest as he flung himself back into the fight, steel clashing with steel, fine mist of rain caught on his lashes, the pleasure of battle humming through his blood. Whatever else this Inquisition came to think, they’d be impressed by the Iron Bull’s Chargers if every single one of them had to stake their lives on it.

_Good thing_ , Krem thought, carving through another ‘Vint bastard, _we’re so bloody good at what we do._

**Feynriel:**

The Fade had never been so frightening.

Feynriel slipped deeper into dreams, braced against the clawing fear he could no longer seem to control. The wound that stretched across the sky was echoed here, too, though he doubted the normal dreamers could sense it the way he could. It felt…

It felt, eerily, like an eye glaring down on the ever-changing landscape below. And if he was willing to allow his flights of fancy to continue—to take that metaphor to its natural end—it felt like whatever powered that eye always, always managed to zero in on him whenever he pushed his consciousness past the veil. _Watching_ him as he slipped effortlessly through dreams.

He shivered, forcing himself to ignore the creeping sensation of being watched, measured, found wanting, and concentrated instead on slipping through the dark sea of dreamers. A few shone bright, beckoning him: powerful minds caught in elaborate dreams. Diamonds winking multi-faceted light across the Fade. Feynriel was tempted—so very bloody tempted—to seek out Krem, the brightest of those lights. He was a safe haven in the Fade, a port in a turbulent storm…but there was someone who needed him more right now. And as much as he wanted to be comforted, Feynriel was determined to do his best to give comfort instead.

Fighting to ignore the creeping pressure of that tear in the Fade, of _that eye_ watching him, Feynriel reached out for Dorian’s awareness, flinging himself across the endless stretch of dreams to sink into his sleeping thoughts with a sigh. There was no resistance, as there often was with mages: even now, Dorian welcomed him in to his dreams. Perhaps especially now that… Well.

He drifted like a spirit down down down into the other man’s thoughts, the world of Dorian’s dreams forming around him in jagged shapes and broken edges. The Waking Sea formed in the distance, grey and swollen with storms, and a crumbling manor house stood perched on the edge of the cliff as if bracing for a swan-dive into oblivion.

Dorian’s mind was utter chaos. The air itself seemed to vibrate with his grief.

“Maker,” Feynriel breathed, mustering his strength. Every night for weeks he’d come to keep his friend company through his fitful dreams; every night he was struck anew by the horror of loss. If Krem had been killed instead of Dorian’s Voice—

No. No, fuck, he couldn’t even think about it.

Feynriel pushed past the impulse to flinch back from the open wound that was his friend’s mind and instead picked his way across crumbling black rock to the beach below. Dorian was sitting by the mouth of a cave just past the water’s reach. He had his knees drawn up and his arms locked across his shins—eyes red-rimmed and lost as any child’s. The way his shoulders sloped, the way he held himself still as if any sudden movement could send him shattering to pieces, _hurt_. It _hurt_ to see Dorian like this, after everything he had survived.

_Maker_.

Feynriel fought to keep the pity off his face as he moved to join his friend, sitting on a rock just an arms-length away. He drew his own legs up, folding them beneath him as he rested his chin on his fist. For the first week, neither had said much at all. What was there _to_ say? _I’m sorry for your loss?_ Hollow words and hollow sentiment: until Feynriel felt his own soul being snapped in half, there was no way he could even hope to understand how Dorian felt.

So. He didn’t try to pretend he did. Instead, he just _sat_ there, a presence in his dreams, just to keep the Fade from feeling so crushingly empty.

Now, weeks after the end of the world, with news of the Inquisition growing in Haven and the rebel mages gathering in Redcliffe and… _something_ strange and powerful emerging from Tevinter, the silence was sometimes broken, but the weight of it still remained between them—a solid wall only Dorian could breach.

He didn’t glance over at Feynriel. He didn’t even blink. Today’s silence stretched long and heavy and painful between them, filled only by the crash of the waves and skitter of small rocks tumbling down the sheer face of the cliff as the manor house slowly crumbled into the sea.

It was like being trapped in a gothic nightmare; Feynriel couldn’t help but wonder what brought Dorian’s mind here time and time again. His dead Voice? _Maker_.

Finally, with a serrated breath, Dorian spoke. “Do you have news?” His voice sounded rusty, but at least he was trying. Feynriel wasn’t sure he’d be able to do the same in his place.

_Don’t think about that._ He curled his hands into fists, nails digging into the meat of his palms. “Yes,” he said. Then, more truthfully: “I’m not sure.”

The other man didn’t look over at him. Those dark eyes scanned the far horizon, where lightning forked from blackened clouds to strike white-capped waves. His lips twisted into the echo of his old smile. “More of that cult nonsense? Alexius always did have a flair for the dramatic, but he was never a fool before.”

“The Venatori are gathering strength—and numbers. They’re still shielding their dreams from me. I can catch glimpses now and again, but…” Feynriel spread his hands helplessly. “I did manage to reach your old friend, though. The…the sick one?”

That had Dorian’s attention. He tilted his head to look at Feynriel, gaze sharpening. “Felix?” he said. “So he’s still…?”

“Yes.” Whatever Dorian meant to say, it was true, at least for now. _Still alive, still tainted, still slowly fading away_. “His father has placed powerful wards around him, but I could still manage to reach him. He wanted me to tell you that Alexius is playing with something dangerous.”

“That is hardly new,” Dorian said, just a touch too sharply. He began to turn away again, hunching around himself…then sighed and pushed his fingers through his hair. It was mussed in a way Feynriel had never seen before that horrible day, unkempt, as if Dorian couldn’t bother presenting his usual suave façade. Not here in his own dreams at least, where the whole world echoed the bruised ache of unimaginable loss. “What did Felix tell you?”

Feynriel leaned forward. “I didn’t fully understand it,” he admitted. “Something about the rebel mages and _time_ , and how his father was making certain there was more than enough of it. I couldn’t reach him for long, and the message was…”

Dorian jerked to look at him. “ _Time_?” he said. “You’re certain Felix said his father was mucking about with _time_?”

He hadn’t looked so animated in well over a month. The light in his eyes was both frightening and an incredible relief. “Yes,” Feynriel said quickly, “we only had a moment before I was pushed out of his head, but Felix was adamant that Alexius intended to reach the rebel mages in Redcliffe, and he was fixated on making sure there was enough…what are you doing?”

Feynriel awkwardly scrambled up even as Dorian stood, dark robes settling around him in graceful folds. Across the sea, thunder rumbled in warning. “Alexius has lost his mind,” Dorian said grimly. Above them, the crumbling mansion faded into mist. Behind them, the cavern closed, disappearing into a sheer stretch of jagged rock. “If he’s playing with _time_ , then we are running out of it.”

“What will you do?”

Dorian smoothed his hand through his hair again, but this time the sleek black strands followed the flow of his fingers, magically settling into place. His shoulders came back, and if it weren’t for that hollow, haunted look in his eyes, he may have been the smiling, gleaming façade Feynriel had come to know so many years before. (Long, long before he’d been granted permission to see past that knowing smirk.) “I’ll go to Redcliffe and see if I can’t manage to stop him before he goes through with whatever madness he has planned. Felix will help me, no doubt. Perhaps if I’m lucky, the Inquisition will see fit to make an appearance.”

“How can I help?” There was no hesitation, no question: _of course_ Feynriel would do everything he could to help his friend. That would be true even if the stakes were lower, the world less chaotic.

The small smile almost reached Dorian’s eyes. “Make certain I’m lucky,” he said, “and the Inquisition sees fit to make an appearance.”

“I can’t find the Herald in the Fade,” Feynriel reminded him. “Every time I look, all I get is blinding light.”

“I know you’ll find a way. And speaking of finding a way…” Dorian reached out to clasp Feynriel’s shoulder, squeezing gently. It was the first time since the loss of his Voice that Dorian had initiated contact, and even though Feynriel knew there was a long, long road to travel before he had recovered, even though he knew much of his current strength was fed by necessity and a desperate grab for some vital task to distract himself from grief, he still felt a spark of hope at the touch. Maybe, with time, Dorian would be…if not whole, at least recovered. “I think it is far past time you found your way from Tevinter. The world needs you.”

Feynriel’s stomach clenched in reflexive fear. _But I’m not ready_ , he thought. _There’s still so much I don’t know_.

But Dorian was looking at him with something almost like a plea in his eyes, as if to say: _I need you too_. And even if that wasn’t true—even if there was no way the great Dorian Pavus needed some alienage brat at his side—the mere thought had Feynriel standing straighter. Nodding. “Yeah,” he said, trying to smile as Dorian began to fade around the edges, slipping from his dream: already set on the path that would lead him to Redcliffe. “All right. I’ll…see you in the Inquisition, then.”

“Haven,” Dorian said—and was gone.

His dream crumbled around the place where he once stood, cliff and storm and raging sea dissipating until Feynriel stood alone in the darkness of the Fade, a million brilliant dreamers winking up at him like the night sky—the overwhelming gleam of the Herald’s light burning as bright as the sun in the distance as, overhead, some great eye glared down at him: aware. So very chillingly, horrifyingly _aware_. Sucking in a shaking breath, Feynriel blinked out of the Fade and back into the waking world.

He had work to do.


	11. Taran

“Careful,” Varric said, casting a glance over his shoulder. No one seemed to be paying them any mind as they headed up the rocky path toward the chantry, but there was an unnatural stillness to the air, as if the whole town of Redcliffe was holding its breath. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

Taran couldn’t help but agree. Meeting Alexius had been bad enough—meeting his son for some clandestine… _something_ …had a shiver working up his spine. Still: “You don’t like the looks of steep hills or wide streams, either,” he pointed out with a crooked smile. “Is there anything you _do_ like?”

A few steps behind them, Cassandra snorted. Varric just shot him a crooked smile. “Sure, kid,” he said. “I like a hot fire, a strong drink, and a good book just fine.”

“Add _a soft bed_ in there and you’ve got me sold.”

“Shit,” Varric sighed as they reached the imposing old building, “we’ve been slogging through the ass-crack of Ferelden for so long that I’ve forgotten what one feels like. I almost—”

Solas caught Taran’s arm before he could reach for the round brass handle. “Wait,” he said, tilting his head. Those canny eyes of his had a far-away look. “Do you feel that?”

“I do not feel anything,” Cassandra said immediately—prickly and a little affronted, as she still was around the apostate. But Taran let himself go still and closed his eyes, reaching out blindly for whatever had Solas on edge. He was no mage, but the strange mark on his hand had changed him in more ways than one, and sometimes he could—

He—

 _Shit_.

Taran grimly reached for his greatsword. “Rift,” he said by way of explanation, loosening it from its sheath. As if in response, green fire crackled around his fingertips.

Cassandra immediately drew blade and shield, ready to throw herself into battle; Varric sighed. “You never take us anywhere _nice_ , do you?” he complained, a smile in his voice even as he loosened Bianca. Solas tilted his staff, its tip already glowing in anticipation, and reached for the door. “Three silvers says it’s one of those jumpy ones.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” said Cassandra as the chantry door swung open, though there was no telling which disgusted her more: the betting or the demons. Taran had to admit…the jumpy ones were his least favorite too. (Climbing back up to his feet in full plate armor was the _worst_.)

Ignoring that—focusing instead on the task ahead—he stepped into the dim chantry, ready to face whatever waited there. Taran took in the scene on a glance.

It was a sizable space, pews already pushed back or toppled over against the wall, stone floor cleared. Good: lots of room to maneuver if things got dicey. Afternoon sunlight slanted through gaps in the shredded cloth covering the far rose window, but the central rift cast its own queasy light. A shade hissed, turning its head as if sensing Taran, and the rift spiked with renewed energy—making his blood hum in response.

All of that was to be expected. They’d been fighting their way across the Hinterlands and up into the Storm Coast for months now, closing rifts and sealing away demons. Each battle was different, but the pieces were all the same. The humming energy, the quickening of strange magic in his body, the strain and sweat and blood.

Iron pieces moving across a board.

Except this time, there was a key difference: a single mage stood alone against the shades, staff swinging with a showy grace unlike anything Taran had ever seen. Each movement was fluid, like the prelude to a complicated dance he could never hope to understand, much less master: the rift-light shone on bits of metal sewn into the complicated line of the mage’s robe, making him wink in the darkness like a hundred brilliant stars.

 _Beautiful_ , Taran couldn’t help but think, stumbling to a stop. Lowering his blade in surprise. Behind him, Cassandra, Varric and Solas took his cue and hesitated, the four of them watching the end of the battle play out.

The mage whirled with a grunt of effort, slamming the end of his staff into the shade’s face. His single bared bicep bulged, muscle rippling, green light catching on the curve of his jaw as he swung around again, again, each twist of his powerful body bringing his staff down hard against the creature’s head.

It hissed in pain, lifting a clawed hand to strike. Taran jerked forward a step, cry of warning dying on his lips as a flare of dark light emanated from the tip of the mage’s staff, enveloping the shade in deeper shadow. It screamed, high-pitched ululation echoing off the chantry walls as it lurched back and began to melt in on itself, caught in a final, desperate writhe.

The mage straightened, staff still alight, and brushed a hand across his immaculate robe. He was standing in profile, the crackling green light of the still-open rift haloed about a strong brow, an aristocratic nose, full lips. A dark curling mustache that shouldn’t have looked as handsome as it did.

Taran felt his mouth go bone-dry in an instant.

The mage was… He was… _Beautiful_ , a quiet part of him whispered again, even as the rest clamored louder, sharper, that this man was something _more_ than that. Something familiar and yet strange, perfect and yet unsettling—attractive in every possible sense of the word, as if he were an open singularity pulling at parts of Taran he’d never bothered to examine before. His heart was pounding in his chest and he swore, he _swore_ —

Taran swore he was falling from some great height as the mage smirked up at the rift and then turned to face their small party with a careless flourish. “Ah, good,” he said with a mannered quirk of a dark brow, gaze sweeping across the lot of them. “You’re finally here. Now help me…”

He froze, eyes locking with Taran’s, words trailing off between them.

The silence that remained _echoed_ , heavy as the golden armor Taran wore: stunned, as if the very sight of Taran had struck the other man speechless. Those dark eyes widened, and he was too far away to read the emotion laid clear there, but he could feel its dangerous undertow creeping around them, between them. Heavy, heady, indescribable.

 _I know you_ , Taran wanted to say—but then, of course, that was crazy. He’d never met this man in his life. _I want to know you_. But that was crazy too, wasn’t it? People didn’t just clap eyes on each other and feel their insides twist inside-out in sudden, heady need to be as close as humanly possible.

He took a jerky step forward, freezing when the mage stumbled a step _back_ , eyes going wider and wider, silence stretching out between them to its absolute breaking point. _Beyond_ , the crackle of the rift the only thing breaking their shocked tableau.

They might have stood there forever, stunned, if energy hadn’t spiked just over the other man’s shoulder in four arcs of light. Varric cursed, jerking his crossbow up and Cassandra pushed past Taran on her way to one of the points of eruption. Taran still remained as if frozen in place, mind circling itself uselessly as he stared, and stared, and _stared._

The strange man stared back, trapped in the same spell—one hand over his heart as if to catch its breaking pieces.

A few steps away, one of those points of eruption bubbled, casting eerily shifting light across the man’s (beautiful; perfect) face. A clawed hand reached out, swiping angrily as the demon struggled to drag itself free, already screeching its fury. _That_ was enough to have Taran’s mouth unglued; _that_ was enough to have him stumbling into the fray, sword lifting and arcing down with a single powerful swing, cleaving the creature before the Fade could finish birthing it into the world.

What felt like a continent away, he was aware of Varric’s crossbow bolts thunking into the thick hide of another demon. Cassandra gave a taunting shout, and ice spread in a musical wave across the stone flagons from Solas’s spell, but he was looking up just as the mage was looking down, and their eyes caught again—this time close enough that Taran could _see_ himself reflected in their depths.

Time slowed.

Froze.

Became meaningless around them.

Taran straightened as if in slow motion, lifting his sword. Ichor pooled in perfect crystalline beads from its razor sharp edge, each one falling like molasses toward stone: _Drip. Drip. Drip._ The man’s ridiculously long lashes flickered, eyes dropping down Taran’s body and then up again, an alien hunger burning in their depths. It wasn’t sexual, though Taran felt a spark flare deep in his belly in response. It was more like…

Like he was the answer to a question he hadn’t realized had been asked.

Taran flushed, finally fully upright, just a pace or two away. The mage lifted his staff by painstaking degrees, lips parting, moving, shaping each syllable with utmost care as if begging Taran to read his lips. (And really, it was _no_ hardship to stare at his mouth; Maker, had he _ever_ looked at the shape of someone’s lips before? Certainly not like this.) _“We…ought…to…”_

It wasn’t until he was three words in that Taran realized with a snap that this—this strange, slow, hazy awareness—wasn’t _natural_. He wasn’t just mentally falling all over himself at the sight of a pretty face and haunted dark eyes: the world really _had_ slowed down around them, stretched thin as taffy while the rest of his friends battled.

His cheeks heated even _more_ at the realization, and he pulled back a step, nodding. He was lifting his sword even as the mage twirled his staff in painfully slow rotations—growing quicker and quicker as they both broke free of the strange time warp, until with a sudden _snap_ the world realigned and they were thrust into the thick of battle.

Taran forced himself to look away and throw himself into fighting, passing in and out of unexpected pockets of time as shades raged around them. They fought back waves of demons as they whittled back the rift’s strength, priming it for the moment he felt that tell-tale tug at his palm.

 _Now_ , an innate part of him whispered. _Now now now_.

He turned and thrust up a hand, green power arching from him like reverse lighting. He was hyperaware of the strange mage leaning against his staff no more than ten feet away, cheeks flecked with demon ichor and burning eyes locked on him—watching as he grimaced at the near-overwhelming tug of the Fade, the _pain_ lacing through him in poison-swift eddies, then _jerked_ his hand into a fist.

Green fire erupted over their heads, falling in a shower of sparks that disappeared the moment they kissed the ground. The rift closed over them, and the chantry was pitched into shadow.

Taran dragged in an unsteady breath, slowly lowering his hand.

No one said a word.

He glanced around to take stock of his friends before looking toward the mage again. He was watching Taran with a focus that was almost unnerving, _that look_ in his eyes again. It flared dark and starved and unsettlingly magnetic until, at the scrape of Cassandra’s sword in its sheath, the mage blinked and it was suddenly gone.

“Fascinating,” he said. He turned from Taran to glance up toward where the rift had been, head tilting to the side: curiosity sharpened to a fine edge. “How does that work, exactly?”

And oh, no, _of course_ : he wasn’t looking at Taran with… _whatever_ in his eyes. He’d been looking at the bloody _Herald_. It was still so easy to forget that after nineteen years of being absolutely nobody, now he was supposed to be some kind of holy symbol or whatever. The chosen of Andraste—as if Andraste had nothing better to do than pluck backwater know-nothings out of complete obscurity and dump them tits over ass in the middle of the end of the world.

The mage glanced back at him, brows arched, and Taran realized with a flush that he’d just been standing there like an idiot in the wake of his question. Yeah, he was doing _such_ a good job representing Andraste, wasn’t he? The Maker’s chosen, his ass.

“You don’t even know, do you?” There was a slight hysterical tinge to the mage’s laugh as he turned to face him again, and Taran tried not to wince. He could practically hear the man adding _clueless_ to his first impressions of _young_ and _easily distracted by a pretty (pretty) face_. “You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes.”

“Who are you?” Taran asked. That seemed like the most important thing to know now. Vital, even.

He tipped his head. “Ah,” he said, and there was a strange undercurrent to his words, to his voice. More curiosity? Uncertainty at meeting the bloody Herald? Taran couldn’t say; he’d never known enough people to be able to read them well. “Getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus,” Dorian said with a slight, almost ironic bow. “Most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Another Tevinter,” Cassandra said. Taran glanced over at her, catching her serious, speaking look. “Be cautious with this one.” He had to fight not to flush. Could she tell how…intriguing he found this man? Maker, could all of them tell?

That would be _humiliating_.

If Dorian caught the undercurrent of her warning, he didn’t let on. “Suspicious friends you have here,” he said, voice light, as if it didn’t bother him at all. Then, “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable—as I’m sure you can imagine.”

So much for fighting back the flush; it felt like his cheeks were on fire. “I was expecting Felix to be here,” Taran said. It was probably best to just ignore how off-balance he felt and hope for the best.

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Dorian said. He took a half-step closer, then paused when Cassandra very obviously dropped her hand to the hilt of her sword. He cleared his throat. “That is, he was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father.”

Which brought its own rash of questions. “Alexius couldn’t jump to Felix’s side faster when he pretended to be faint. Is something wrong with him?”

“He’s had some lingering illness for months. Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.”

Oh. Well. That made sense. Taran glanced over toward where Varric and Solas had come up to flank him, then over toward Cassandra. He wasn’t quite sure what else he was supposed to say, so he fumbled for the obvious. “You’re betraying your mentor because…?”

Dorian opened his mouth; closed it. Drew a breath. “Alexius _was_ my mentor,” he said, though Taran couldn’t help but feel he’d almost said something else. “Meaning he’s not any longer. Not for some time.” That didn’t answer Taran’s question, but Dorian wasn’t finished. He stepped forward again, _closer_ , ignoring Cassandra’s low noise of displeasure and the way even Varric oh-so-casually hefted Bianca. Taran wanted to tell them to stop—tell them Dorian wouldn’t hurt him—but then…how was he so certain of that? He didn’t know the other man. He didn’t know anything about him, other than he made his head swim and his pulse race. Oh, and he was from Tevinter and wanted to help them take down Alexius for some reason.

“Look,” Dorian said quietly, as if just for him. As if the rest of them, the rest of the world, no longer existed. Strange how true that felt right now. “You must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

That. Couldn’t be possible. Could it?

Maker, no, he’d seen enough impossible things in the last few months to believe every word. And it even made a twisted sort of sense. “He arranged it so he could arrive here just after the Divine died?”

Dorian smiled—a real smile, small but warm enough to reach his eyes. “You catch on quick,” he murmured in a way that had Taran’s insides glowing with warmth.

Solas made a noise in the back of his throat. “That is fascinating, if true,” he said. “And almost certainly dangerous.”

“The rift you closed here,” Dorian added. “You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down?” Taran flushed; he wasn’t likely to forget _that_ , or his own idiocy, any time soon. “Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world.”

“You’re asking me to take a lot on faith,” Taran said slowly.

Dorian pulled back a half-step, which very nearly had Taran fumbling over himself to apologize. He hadn’t meant to offend him, but… “I know what I’m talking about,” Dorian said. “I helped develop this magic. When I was still his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them,” said a voice from the darkness.

Taran whirled, hand on his sword, as Varric cursed and Cassandra drew her own blade. He took an impulsive step in front of Dorian, as if to guard him—at the very same moment, Dorian pushed ahead of _him_ , staff out, one hand splayed protectively before Taran, as if he meant to do the very same.

Taran stared at him, dumbfounded, even as his friends relaxed their guard as Felix stepped into the light.

There was an awkward beat before Dorian lowered his staff and his outflung hand; he did not look back at Taran. “Took you long enough,” he said, voice oddly strained. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No,” Felix said, moving to join them, “but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day. My father’s joined a cult,” he added to Taran. “Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves Venatori. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

Taran looked between the two of them—these two Tevinter mages working together against a man who had, at least in theory, been important to them. It seemed strange that they’d be willing to fight against Alexius and these…Venatori…but then, the world was strange. It didn’t seem right to question their allegiances again. “Why would he rearrange time and indenture the mage rebellion just to get to me?”

“They’re obsessed with you,” Felix said, “but I don’t know why. Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

Dorian made a low noise at that. Taran and Felix both looked toward him, but his expression was a mask—impossible to read. He cleared his throat. “You can close the rifts,” he said before either could say anything. “Maybe there’s a connection? Or they see you as a threat?”

“If the Venatori are behind those rifts, or the Breach in the sky, they’re even worse than I thought,” Felix said.

This was almost too much to handle. Cassius’s death, a hole in the sky, a mark on his hand, the way people stared at him, and now…this. “All this for me?” Taran said with a crooked smile to break the tension. It was the best he could do. “And here I didn’t get Alexius anything.”

Dorian gave a soft chuff of laugher. “Send him a fruit basket,” he said. “Everyone loves those.” And before Taran could say anything, he added in a more serious voice: “You know you’re his target.”

“Expecting the trap is the first step toward turning it to your advantage,” Solas pointed out thoughtfully.

Varric whistled. “Doesn’t that make him the bait? Shit. I don’t like the sound of that, kid.”

“I don’t like the sound of any of this,” Taran admitted, “but we have to do something. We’ll head back to Haven,” he added after a moment of thought. “We can cut down travel to a few days if we double-time it and refresh our horses along the way. Cassandra and I need to talk this over with the others before we make our move…one way or the other. I assume you’ll both want to stay near Alexius,” he added to Felix and Dorian.

“Yes,” Felix said. “I need to stay by his side.”

But Dorian was already shaking his head. “I will come with you,” he said with surprising firmness, as if he couldn’t imagine it any other way. Then, at Taran’s surprised silence: “That is, if the Inquisition will have me.”

“I’ll have you,” Taran said. Crap, that came out all wrong. He paused, feeling the blush creep across his cheeks again. “We’ll have you,” he said. That wasn’t much better though, was it? “The Inquisition will have you. I mean, we’ll have _anyone_.”

Varric snorted a laugh. “I’d stop digging, kid,” he said. “You’re deep enough as it is.”

Dorian was smiling though, that warmth in his eyes as he looked at Taran—it made him feel like the only person in the room again. Maker, but Dorian had beautiful eyes. “If the Inquisition will have _anyone_ ,” he said, a teasing lilt to his words, “then I’m very honored to be had by you.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra muttered.

“Smooth,” Varric admired.

Taran simply stood there, flatfooted, tongue-tied, immolating from the inside-out.

“Well,” Dorian said. “If we’re to make it to Haven and back before Alexius grows impatient, we should be off. Oh and Felix?” he added as Felix gave a formal half-bow and began to slink back into the shadows. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” Felix said with a sad twist of his lips—and then he was gone.

Dorian let out a soft puff of breath, watching the darkness where the other mage had been. “Yes,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. He turned, eyes seeking out Taran again, and that…haunted look was back, there and gone again in a flash. “I suppose that’s true. So! Shall we be off then?”

“I…yes,” Taran said, struggling for the threads of his thoughts. He wet his lips, stepping back—then suddenly laughed. “Oh!” he said, grin spreading across his face. Maker, he was terrible at this. “I can’t believe we went through _all that_ and I never actually introduced myself. I’m Taran Trevelyan, of Ostwick. It’s so nice to meet you, Dorian.”

“Taran,” Dorian murmured slowly, as if testing out the name. His hand curled tight tight tight around his staff, knuckles bleeding white, but he smiled as he said: “Taran Trevelyan, of Ostwick. Well, Taran Trevelyan of Ostwick…I can’t tell you how _good_ it is to finally meet you.”


	12. Dorian

_So this is what going mad bloody well feels like_ , Dorian thought, clinging to the back of his piebald mare as they raced across the rolling hills of Redcliffe. It was late in the evening, moonlight casting over dappled hollows and winding streams: utterly brilliant in the cloudless sky. Dorian watched, feeling, just, _far too much_ as that soft light haloed Taran’s face when he turned his head to flash Dorian a crooked grin. It cast shadows across his armor—shadows and light, shadows and light, more real than anything he thought he’d ever see.

Beautiful and solid and just a stone’s throw away. _Alive_. Somehow, impossibly, wonderfully _alive_.

Taran tipped his head, reading something in Dorian’s eyes, and Dorian forced himself to tear his gaze away as he leaned over the creaking old saddle, heart hammering like a dwarven forge in his chest. His hands actually trembled where they gripped the reins tight tight tight, and he swore he was going to go flying apart at any moment.

 _Kaffas_ , he thought, staring blindly ahead of him, all too aware of Taran to his right. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d suffered a shock in that little backwater chantry and there hadn’t been a moment to himself where he could reorient his scattered world from grief to joy to…what? The other half of his soul was miraculously _alive,_ but he was also the bloody Herald of Andraste—how was he supposed to respond to that? How was he supposed to know what to do? The holy savior of Thedas, bonded to a Tevinter mage? Preposterous.

Dorian grit his teeth and focused on swallowing back all the bloody nonsense rattling about in his head, leaving him shaken. Shaking. _Keep it together; worry about all that later._

They’d been riding for most of the day now, stopping only to switch horses and force down quick meals at the various Inquisition camps along the way. War-torn Redcliffe seemed almost peaceful under those already-familiar banners, and Dorian would have given the Inquisition credit for clearing the roads and settling the chaos so neatly…if he could somehow manage to keep his thoughts from spiraling off into near-hysterical blithering every few minutes.

This? Was going to be a problem.

 _My unum vinctum_ , he thought, sneaking another glance at the younger man. Then, swiftly: _No. My Voice._ Not that he was prepared to admit as much now. Still, he couldn’t help but soak him in every chance he got, gaze seeking him out with a maddening hunger. Taran rode like someone new to the saddle, but there was a joy to the way he moved with his horse. There was a joy to every bloody thing he did, and how, _how_ had Dorian ended up drawn to someone so effortlessly pure? So… _sweet_ , with flashing smiles and Maker-damned dimples and a blush that crept across his cheeks every time he looked over and caught Dorian staring.

Staring like he was _now_ , watching Taran move with the steady drum of his horse’s hooves out of the corners of his eyes. The new armor only served to highlight the sheer breadth of his warrior’s body, the length of his powerful limbs. Youth still clung to his features, but there was new wisdom there too—as if Taran had been changed by everything he’d seen.

By the mark on his hand?

Kaffas, it was crazy how much he wanted to reach over and take that hand. Wanted to cup it between his palms and run his thumb across the point where green magic flared bright. He wished he could lean down and brush his lips across the mark, flick his tongue against the seam of skin and swallow some of that light inside himself because it had _saved_ Taran. It had kept him alive against all odds, against all hope, against—

Against reason itself.

 _Obviously I’m dreaming_ , Dorian told himself again even as he twined his (trembling) hands in his mare’s reins. _Or I really have gone mad._ Either seemed just as likely as somehow stumbling across his presumed-dead Voice, who just so happened to be the Herald of bloody Andraste: sole survivor of Haven and the last great hope for all the known world.

His stomach twisted in some queasy mix of elation and dread as Taran lifted his hand, whistling to get their attention.

Taran dug his heels in, pulling forward, taking the lead. Dorian helplessly followed, loathe to fall too far behind even as Taran lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled again—the signal that they were nearing their next stop. The small caravan slowed as they approached a rapidly expanding point of light, Inquisition scouts raising their hands in greeting. Dorian forced himself to look away from Taran and instead scanned the orderly campground. He spotted tents rising from the darkness, dotting the hillside as men patrolled in groups of two, others gathering on felled logs about the main bonfire.

Its light caught Taran’s face, his armor, as they drew close and Dorian found himself helplessly staring again despite himself. It made the younger man shine bright as any sun when he swung a leg over his horse’s side, dropping lightly to the ground. “We’ll stay the rest of the night, don’t you think?” he said, glancing toward Cassandra. “We can ride fresh at dawn.”

“As you say,” Cassandra agreed easily, as if Taran were the one giving the orders.

“About damn time,” Varric grumbled, earning a soft laugh. Taran stroked a hand down his horse’s muzzle just as one of the scouts came to claim its reins, leading it away. Some distance back, Solas slid easily from his mount while, a few feet away, Varric tumbled down with a grunt of displeasure. Dorian simply sat there, transfixed by the way Taran’s hair fell across his eyes, the way his mouth shaped words, the way _that dimple_ flashed as he responded to Varric, so real, so vital, so alive that not even Dorian could convince himself this was all some kind of extended hallucination. There was no way he could have dreamed all the details that made up this bizarre moment, and no demon could have so perfectly captured the way Taran glowed in firelight.

Maker, but he was just so distressingly _pretty_. And he was here. And he was alive. And and and he was _looking right at Dorian again_ , color high in his cheeks as he tipped his head up to watch him just sitting there frozen like some kind of love-struck fool—damn, damn, double damn.

“You can sleep in the saddle if you want,” Taran said, moving to stand by Dorian’s horse. He reached up, one hand pressed against the curve of its shoulder, mind-bogglingly close to Dorian’s thigh; he swore he could feel the heat even through his robes. “But I’m betting there’s a bedroll that’s a far sight more comfortable if you want it.”

Bedrolls. He was sitting here, talking to his dead Voice—who just so happened to be the holy chosen of Andraste or what-have-you—about horses and bedrolls, as if every moment Taran drew breath wasn’t some kind of miracle.

Dorian cleared his throat. “One thing you’ll learn about me is that I _always_ preference comfort—especially when it’s my own.” There. That sounded sufficiently casual. He began to swing a leg over the saddle, prepared to drop more-or-less gracefully to the ground when his stiff body (held impossibly tight for the past endless haze of hours as joy, shock, confusion, fear and hope rioted through him in blinding succession) locked up, muscles cramping.

He hissed out a breath, freezing midway down.

Taran reached out instinctively to catch Dorian’s hips. “Here,” he said, completely and blissfully unaware of the way Dorian’s thoughts shattered at the contact. His hands were, Maker, big. _Strong_. Gripping his waist as Taran all but took his weight, helping him down like some kind of knight out of a fairy story, and _Maker take me, stop swooning and focus_. “…okay?”

He’d lost most of the words in a blaze of white-hot heat, but Dorian closed his eyes and forced himself back together again, settling his expression into an easy enough smile as he turned to face Taran…subtly stepping away from his steadying grip. “Yes, yes, fine,” he said, waving it off as if his whole body weren’t humming with electricity. “You rode us hard, that’s all.”

 _Great bloody hell_ , he hadn’t just said that.

Taran, bless him, was several degrees too innocent to realize how filthy that double entendre really was. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, ducking his head and looking adorably chastised. “I know the pace is brutal, and it’s just going to get harder, but it’ll be worth it when we make it to the end.”

It took everything Dorian had not to choke.

“Are you sore?” Taran asked, earnest. “I can show you a few stretches if you’re—”

“It’s fine!” Dorian said quickly, before his brain could conjure up lurid images of Taran _stretching him_. Standing just a few paces away from the boy was bad enough—he didn’t need to feed the flickering coals low in his belly. “It’s fine. A few hours out of the saddle should be more than enough.”

Taran offered a crooked smile, giving Dorian’s mare a final pat as one of the scouts led it away. “Okay, good. Though if it gets _really_ bad, be sure to let us know. For the first week we were at this—you know, crossing Redcliffe, looking for rifts and people to help and such—I just assumed it was _supposed_ to hurt. I’d been practicing swordwork since I was little, but there’s a big difference between swinging a sword for play and swinging it to keep your head on your shoulders. My muscles were so cramped every night that I took to stuffing the edge of my bedroll in my mouth so I wouldn’t accidentally cry out and wake everyone.”

Dorian blinked at him, dumbfounded. Taran must have taken that horror for reprobation—he flushed, ducking his head until the longish bangs fell across his eyes. “ _I know_ ,” he said on a laugh. “I know, it was so stupid of me. When Cassandra figured out why I was so stiff in battle—why I was so exhausted all the time—she nearly had my head. She’s the one who showed me the stretches, and Solas made this salve of elfroot for the worst of it. Neither of them let me forget it for weeks, either. I sure learned better than to hide when I was hurting after _that_.”

“I am…not quite so self-sacrificing,” Dorian assured him. “If I need help, you will hear me complain loud and long.”

He laughed—the sweetest sound—and rubbed the back of his neck. “Varric said something similar. I think the two of you are going to get along just great.”

“Perhaps,” Dorian said, too distracted by Taran’s proximity, his warmth, his _smile_ to pay attention to what either of them was saying. The others had long since wandered off to find food or bedrolls, but they were still standing in place, away from the fires: distant satellites circling each other like the moon and _venhedis_ , he really needed to stop letting his brain run away with him every bloody time this man looked at him. It was dangerous to let his guard down before he’d had time to puzzle out what in the Maker’s name they were going to _do_.

Dorian cleared his throat and forced himself back a subtle step. He smiled, indolent and unaffected, as if his heart wasn’t straining against his ribcage. “But then,” he said, “perhaps not. I am wonderfully charming, you see, but I have never exactly been known for my ability to _get along_.”

He meant that as a subtle warning—a way to distance himself from Taran and the rest of his ragtag crew—but Taran just took a step _closer_ , eyes on his, and said with enough earnestness to melt even a demon’s heart: “Well, I like you just fine.”

Dorian swallowed back a broken noise and absolutely refused to let himself fall into his Voice’s arms.

“Oh. But you weren’t feeling well. Here,” Taran added, gesturing Dorian ahead of him as if suddenly remembering his manners. “You’ll feel much better after you’ve sat by the fire awhile. I can get you some food and…tea? Do you like tea? Or do you prefer something stronger?”

He let himself be gently ushered toward one of the big bonfires, all too aware that the heat prickling his skin wasn’t entirely due to the flames. “Oh, don’t bother.” Then, when he could practically feel Taran drawing in a breath to protest: “Whatever you’re having is fine.” The words came out sounding dismissive, but it was all Dorian could do not to turn around and stare and stare and stare as Taran veered off toward the smattering of small cookfires. Instead, he made his way with ever-quickening strides toward where Varric was settling in before the main bonfire, ignoring curious glances Inquisition troops shot him as he pulled up his own patch of earth just a few feet away.

 _Breathe_ , Dorian told himself, and sucked in a lungful of air. Then another. Another. The heat felt wonderfully bracing, flames crackling high up up up toward the night sky. With Taran out of sight for the first time in hours, he felt as if his lungs, long constricted, were finally able to expand.

 _Maker_ , what was he going to do?

Varric tipped his head in welcome, watching him for what felt like a very long time. Finally, he broke the silence. “So,” he said, leaning back against the felled log he was using as a backrest, eyes on Dorian, “you’re a Tevinter mage.”

Dorian swallowed back a groan. _Ah, yes, here we go_. Really, it was a surprise they’d made it this far without Cassandra dragging him from his horse and shouting vaguely threatening questions into his face. “And _you_ are a dwarf,” Dorian said, still too unsettled to take the interrogation with anything even approaching grace. “Quite a terrible one, too, if your beard is anything to go by.”

The dwarf smirked, rubbing at his darkly-stubbled chin. “And how about you, Sparkler?”

He arched a brow at the nickname. “Am I a terrible dwarf?” he said. “Oh, _naturally_.”

That earned a laugh—loud and rasping and surprisingly friendly. Dorian’s shoulders began to relax by slow degrees, his hackles lowering. “I don’t know,” Varric said, head tipping back so he could stare up at the stars, “lose a couple of feet and you’d probably be a better dwarf than me. The bar on that one’s set pretty low. What brings you down to Ferelden?”

 _Heartbreak_. Maker, how maudlin he had become. “Curiosity,” Dorian lied. Then, when Varric rolled his head to give him a _look_ , he added more honestly: “I wanted to help. Not every Tevinter is on some mad quest to end all existence, you realize. I’m rather attached to the idea of helping to save the world; I quite like living in it, you see.”

“I hear you on that. So you’re here to stop Alexius and help out the Inquisition?”

“You’re the only ones who seem to be _accomplishing_ anything.” Dorian crossed his legs, smoothing his robe out to give his hands something to do. His pulse had begun to quicken again, making him feel unaccountably jumpy and irritable, though it wasn’t until a branch cracked beneath a heavy footfall that he realized—twisting around to see who was coming, heart in his throat—that he was listening for _Taran_.

He didn’t like having his Voice out of his sight, any more than he knew how to function when his Voice was _in_ his sight.

Dorian forced himself to twist back toward the fire and away from the scout passing just behind him. _Not Taran._ He ignored Varric’s curious glance, twining his fingers together to keep them from fidgeting. He wasn’t used to being so flat-footed. Always, always before, Dorian had been able to rely on his wits and his silver tongue and his instincts to see him through. Now…

He felt like he was drowning, torn between an instinct to claim his soulmate before Taran could be ripped away from him for good this time…and the utter certainty that if he let anyone know _the Herald of Andraste_ was Voice to a ‘Vint, what was left of the world would surely burn.

The Inquisition was Thedas’s only hope; could he really muck all that up out of his own single, selfish desire?

“And what’s your take on this whole Herald of Andraste business?”

It was as if the dwarf could read his mind—or, perhaps, an unguarded expression as it crossed his face, there and gone in an instant. Maker knew he felt far more vulnerable than he ever had before. More _exposed_ , as if every bit of hurt and hope and longing and conflicted fear were writ clear across his face.

He had to deflect if he had any hope of making it through this endless day unscathed. He had to convince Varric just how _disinterested_ he was—at least until he had time to be alone long enough to formulate a _plan_.

 _Stall_ , Dorian thought, drawing in a calming breath and relaxing back against the log in his own careful, indolent sprawl. _Lie. Conceal._ He arched a single brow. “What,” he said, so carelessly even he almost believed it, “the _boy_?”

Both of Varric’s brows rose. “Yeah,” he said. “You know: the one with the glowing green hand? Closes rifts, kills demons, stops to help old ladies cross the battlefield?”

“Ah. Well. He’s committed enough, I suppose, but is _he_ really Andraste’s chosen?” Dorian filled his voice with all the casual condescension he’d ever learned from his father’s _unum vinctum_. Funny, that Lucia had managed to teach him so much about turning _defense_ into an _offense_ subtle enough to avoid raising alarm, just by her prickly presence.

Bitchery by osmosis.

Varric was _really_ looking at him now, leaning forward, eyes faintly narrowed. Still trying to take Dorian’s measure but clearly missing the mark—distracted, just like Dorian had intended, by the implied insult. “Shit, Sparkler,” he said, “I don’t know much about that. You’ll have to ask a Sister if you want the theology; I’m not much of a believer.”

 _Liar_ , Dorian thought, surprised by the revelation. It looked like Taran had the beginnings of an honest-to-Maker disciple in this one. “And really, who could blame you?” Dorian said with a flick of his fingers, as if he weren’t already so desperately in love he would do anything to help Taran—even distance himself from him. “The Herald of Andraste should be powerful, awe-inspiring…not some overgrown child with all the social grace of a mabari pup. In fact—”

This time, when a branch cracked just a few feet behind him, Dorian didn’t swivel around. He didn’t _have_ to. He could see the way Varric’s expression changed, could read the chagrined expression in his eyes, _knew_ beyond a shadow of a doubt who was standing just behind him—overhearing every word and no doubt taking them all at face value.

 _I didn’t mean it,_ Dorian didn’t, couldn’t say. He took an uneven breath, fighting with everything he had to keep an impassive expression as Taran— _Taran_ —cleared his throat and awkwardly started-then-stopped toward them, hesitating as if all at once painfully uncertain.

 _I did that_ , he thought, hating himself for it even as he looked up. Taran’s cheeks were flushed a deep red, and he held a mug between his hands. _I did that, but I swear, I swear I didn’t mean it_.

“Ah, here’s your tea,” Taran said. He couldn’t quite meet Dorian’s eyes as he handed it over, too-careful to make sure their fingers didn’t brush.

Dorian’s stomach somehow sank further.

“Right,” he said, when what he meant to say was _thank you_. Words were getting all jumbled up in his head, on his tongue, and he had to look away as Taran straightened. The tension was so thick it was like moving through one of his spells. “Quite.” _Idiot, say something_.

“I need to…” Taran began, only to trail off. He gestured behind him, back toward from where he’d come. “Varric, do you want any, um…”

Varric rose to his feet. “Yeah, sure thing,” he said, slipping past. He caught Taran’s arm and gently tugged him away—rescuing the poor boy. _From me_ , Dorian thought, feeling like a fucking monster. He was only trying to protect himself; he hadn’t _meant_ any of it. But there was no way to walk the overheard insult back without making it ten times worse. “C’mon, kid: I’ll lend you another pair of hands to make the work go faster.”

“Thank you,” Taran said, sounding _relieved_ —and the two of them headed off into the darkness again, leaving Dorian alone by the fire cradling his cup of tea. He stared into the flames, hunched silently around the unhappy curdle of his stomach. The night sky stretched wide and cold overhead; the wind whistled through the hills of Redcliffe; the Inquisition camp slowly quieted around him.

He stayed where he was for what felt like a very long time, sparks climbing high toward the shattered sky, tea gradually cooling between trembling palms.

He didn’t sleep a wink.

Dorian eventually retired to his bedroll, but he spent the night tossing and turning, reliving the moment he realized Taran had overheard the carefully distancing insult. He dissected his own words a thousand different ways, dreaming up and rejecting a million apologies he could make.

What exactly could he tell Taran? _I loved you, and I lost you, and I found you again—but I don’t yet know how to be around you now that you’re the bloody savior of all mankind?_ Yes, that was sure to go over well. Or perhaps: _I’m sorry; I’m a coward. I’m afraid to let you close because I don’t think I could bring myself to share you with the world._

No, Maker, that was even worse. Maybe he should just settle for the truth: _I am a terrible person and you should hate me_. That was clean and simple and elegant in its accuracy.

Either way, what should have been a night spent carefully picking apart the complex web of his reaction to Taran’s resurrection was lost to cringing regret. Dorian dragged himself awake just as the sun was kissing the horizon, bleary-eyed and more tangled up inside than before. He staggered out the first few steps before slowing and forcing himself to regroup: fingers smoothing his hair and mustache, flicking out the wrinkles in his robe, faking a disinterested half-smile, as if he’d spent a night of dreamless sleep. Scouts were already moving about the slowly waking camp, readying their fresh horses. Dorian spotted Cassandra by one of the campfires, drinking from a tin cup.

Best avoid her. Best avoid everyone until he was on an even keel again.

He headed to the horses. He could pretend to be checking on them if anyone asked and use the time to hide like the coward he was. One of the scouts was already moving amongst them, testing saddles and bridles, and Dorian murmured a quiet greeting as he stepped toward the black mare he planned to claim for his own.

The scout paused, one hand on the bridle of a beautiful appaloosa. Then, almost _shyly_ , he glanced over and Dorian got a good look at him.

 _Taran_. No, right, of course it was Taran. Bloody well his luck and all.

“Good morning, Dorian,” Taran said. If he was still upset—angry—about what he’d overheard last night, he didn’t show it. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Dorian said, startled into honesty. His stomach began swooping like a restless bird, and his heart was already pounding. Void, but it was unfair what this single Marcher boy did to him. “I mean, that is…tolerably, yes. Ah. And you?”

 _Oh_ that was awkward. He hadn’t felt so off-balance since he was a child, first discovering that the formless flutters in his chest whenever he was around his (male) friends actually _meant_ something more than admiration. He didn’t know what to do with his feet or his hands, and kaffas, he wasn’t staring again, was he?

“Um, tolerably,” Taran echoed—though he had to be lying, too. Pale violet shadows ringed his eyes, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to reach up and brush them away with the pad of his thumb. To…kiss them or some-such nonsense.

(The mere thought made him shiver in place, no matter how harshly he tried to mock it.)

“Look,” Dorian began, desperate for any kind of equilibrium, just as Taran said, “Well, I should…” Both of them trailed off.

Taran was the first to recover. “We’ll be riding off in the next quarter-hour,” he said. He gave the appaloosa a light pat before stepping away. “I should pry my way back into my armor before Cassandra can chase me down.”

“All right,” Dorian said, watching him step back, pull away, begin to turn. “Taran,” he called before his Voice could get more than a few paces away.

Taran turned to look at him; Dorian’s stomach twisted in response. “I never said thank you,” he said, meeting Taran’s eyes. Falling helplessly, hopelessly into their golden-brown depths. “Last night. For the tea.”

Taran’s smile was slow and warm and heartbreakingly sweet. _Wide_ , corners of his eyes crinkling and dimples flashing and dear Maker, it would take another miracle to keep Dorian from throwing himself at this man’s feet if he continued to smile at him like that. It was intolerable. (It was everything he ever wanted.) “Oh, well,” Taran said, voice just a touch hoarse. “You’re welcome, Dorian.” Then, with a final forgiving glance, he turned away and strode purposefully toward the camp, thin line of his underarmor doing absolutely nothing to hide the shift of hard muscle—or keep Dorian’s mind from spinning toward thoughts he knew he should fight like the devil to avoid.

He was a Tevinter mage. He was the son of House Pavus. He was in his thirties and he was no blushing virgin and he had experienced the _world_ , damn it.

And yet as Dorian watched Taran go, he had to lift a hand to cover the return smile spreading across his own face—bloody _shy_ and hopeful and all too ready to give absolutely everything away if he wasn’t careful.


	13. Cassandra

They had been arguing for what must have been hours now. Cassandra stood at the far end of the table, hands clasped behind her back—fingers of one hand curled tight about the wrist of the other—just to keep from lunging forward and throttling them all.

_Maker_ but she hated the indecisiveness. The _bickering_. They were like children fighting over inconsequentialities when it was clear to her what must be done.

“This is meaningless,” she said, butting into Cullen and Leliana’s squabble. The commander’s face was flushed red with temper, but the spymaster had gone pale. There was poetry in that if she had the patience to stop and study it. “We are wasting time. We must choose and stand by our decision no matter what comes.”

“Cassandra is right,” Leliana said. “And we must choose Redcliffe.”

Cullen made a frustrated, guttural noise deep in the back of his throat. “We don’t have the manpower to take the castle,” he snapped. “Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go get the Templars!”

Impossible. “Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister,” she said, glaring him down. “This cannot be allowed to stand.”

Standing to the far right, flickering candles playing off the gold of her dress, Josephine sighed. “The letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name. It’s an obvious trap.”

_Obviously_. Alexius’s intentions couldn’t have been more clear if he’d begun stroking his chin and cackling to himself the moment the Herald stepped into that inn, but it didn’t change the facts: a Tevinter magister held Redcliffe. He had control over the rebel mage army. He had them backed into a corner and they _could not_ allow him to win, no matter the cost.

“I will not—” Cassandra began hotly, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her wrist.

The Herald— _Taran_ —shot her a glance. “We can’t waste time fighting among ourselves,” he said. Again. And thank the Maker for his level head in the face of all this…utter bullshit.  _He_ understood, even if the rest of them seemed ready to argue themselves into their early graves. “We have to come to an agreement.”

“The Herald is right,” Cassandra said. “We are. _Wasting. Time._ ”

Cullen threw up his hands, as if _they_ were the unreasonable ones. “That’s all very well, Cassandra, but how can we come to an agreement if we can’t even _agree_ on—”

“A Tevinter magister controls Redcliffe,” she said, speaking over him, “invites us to the castle to talk, and yet you want us to do _nothing_.”

Josephine let out a hard breath. “Not this again.”

“Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden,” Cullen said for what had to be the sixth time. _More._ Maker, they had been talking in circles to no end, accomplishing nothing but expelling hot air. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d slam her fist against the table and _force_ them to listen.

But she couldn’t get away with it. Not anymore. Somewhere along the line, all of them—including herself—had stopped thinking of Cassandra as the de facto leader of the Inquisition. That dubious honor, somehow, was more and more often resting in the hands of a boy barely out of manhood—currently listening to each of them with serious gold-brown eyes and a frown between his brows.

_Taran_ might be able to muscle his way into the fight and stop them…but that wasn’t his way. Which she would likely admire, if she wasn’t so _agitated_ now, spoiling for a fight as another day slipped past them. She wanted to take them all to task—as it was, Cassandra had to bite her tongue and let them fall head-first into another pointless round of bickering. _Maker_.

“It has repelled thousands of assaults,” Cullen was saying. He turned the steady strength of his glare on the Herald. “If you go in there, you’ll die. And we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it.”

Standing at her side, Taran subtly stiffened at that. _I won’t allow it._ For all his good nature, the boy had an independent streak a mile wide.

Leliana pinched the bridge of her nose. “And if we don’t even _try_ to meet Alexius, we lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep!”

“Even if we could assault the keep,” Josephine objected, “it would be for naught. An ‘Orlesian’ Inquisition’s army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war.” She gave a jab of her pen to underscore her point. “Our hands are tied.”

Of all the useless… “The magister—” Cassandra began, hotly.

Cullen cut her off with a cold glower. “Has outplayed us.”

Taran leaned forward, subtly casting Cassandra a glance. _I’m with you_ , it seemed to say. _I have your back._ The thought, the gesture, was…surprisingly welcome. Taran Trevelyan may have been young, but he had a good head on his shoulders. When he spoke, people listened: like now, Cullen and Josephine straightening when he said, “If we’re to vote, I vote Redcliffe. We _need_ the mages…and more than that, right now, they need us. We can’t just leave them slaves.”

Even Cullen had to incline his chin in agreement to that.

Taran toyed with one of the iron pieces, voice going quieter, as if he were thinking aloud. “The magister’s son, Felix, told me Alexius is in a cult that’s obsessed with me,” he said. “I doubt they’ll graciously receive our apologies and go about their business.”

“They will remain a threat, and a powerful one, unless we act.” Leliana crossed her arms, red brows drawn firmly together. “I vote Redcliffe as well.”

“And I,” Cassandra said, as if there were any doubt.

Josephine sighed and tilted her head toward Cullen; he nodded his (visibly reluctant) agreement. Cassandra fought not to crow with victory. _Finally._ Three against two. She could feel the direction of the argument shifting with that revelation— _thank the Maker—_ but they weren’t done yet. Now that they had a direction, they still needed a plan. “We cannot accept defeat now,” she said. “There must be a solution.” A way to grab this puzzle by the proverbial balls and force it to line up.

Taran studied the war table as if it could give them some clue. “Where is the arl of Redcliffe? I’m sure he’d help us get his castle back.”

Josephine sighed. “After he was displaced, Arl Teagan rode straight for Denerim to petition the Crown for help. I doubt he’ll want our assistance once the Ferelden army lays siege to his castle.”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak, only to stutter to silence when Leliana suddenly straightened, snapping her fingers. “ _Wait_ ,” she said. An unexpected but not entirely unwelcome gleam brightened her eyes. “There is a secret passage into the castle—an escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”

Cassandra shot her an aggrieved look. “You could not have mentioned this _before_?”

“It has been a long time since I’ve had reason to think of it,” Leliana countered. “Not since the Blight.”

Taran nearly dropped the little iron piece, fumbling with it in suddenly-clumsy fingers as he straightened to gape at Leliana. “The Blight,” he echoed, expression brightening. “You mean the _Warden_! This passage—it’s the one the _Warden_ took to infiltrate Redcliffe Castle. Before the quest for the sacred ashes,” he added, looking toward Cullen in excited explanation.

Cullen’s lips quirked. “Yes,” he said, visibly amused by the boy’s enthusiasm. “I remember.”

Taran blinked, then flushed. “Oh, right,” he said, deflating a little. He laughed, dragging his fingers through his hair in that way he had whenever he was feeling particularly awkward or unbalanced. “I sometime forget they’re more than storybooks for you; you were actually there.”

“I was…near,” Cullen said, voice going quiet. Grim and subtly pained, as if the memory weren’t a good one. “In the Circle. I did not have Leliana’s front row view of history unfolding.”

“I would be happy to show you the tunnels the Warden used,” she said, leaning her hip against the table and very nearly smiling. “Though I hope you have an easier time of it than Solona. Fewer demons would be a nice start.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Even with this hidden entrance, the whole plan is too risky. Whoever used it would be discovered well before they reached the magister.”

“That’s why we need a distraction,” Leliana countered. She tipped her head toward Taran, a single brow arching. “Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?”

Cassandra fought the kneejerk desire to protest. _That is madness_ , she thought, followed quickly by, _That is suicide_. But as much as she instinctively raged against the idea of dangling the Herald in front of Alexius as bait, even she had to admit that the idea held merit.

She had seen the look in the magister’s eyes. He was _desperate_ to get his hands on Taran. And if they could use that to their advantage…

Cullen appeared to be reaching the same conclusion. “Keep attention on Trevelyan while we disable the magister’s defenses,” he murmured, studying the iron pieces on the board with a thoughtful expression. Even Josephine, usually so very cautious when it came to human life, appeared to be considering it. “Distract him with what he really wants while we take out his forces from within. It’s a gamble, but it might work.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing—” Taran began, only to be cut off by a muffled sound from just outside the war room doors. Cassandra turned with a scowl as _both_ of the heavy doors were pushed open in a flashy show of effortless grace, that Tevinter mage sauntering in as if he had any say in this.

“Fortunately,” he said, _grandstanding_ as always, “you’ll have help.” The scout stumbling in his footsteps grabbed for his arm, but Dorian ducked away easily, moving to stand between Cassandra and Taran—whose eyes were already fixed on that damnable smirk. “And by help, I mean _my_ help, which is already ten times better than anything you could have had before.”

Cassandra ground her teeth.

“What are you doing here?” Cullen demanded, instantly impatient; Cassandra had never related to him more fully. “This is a closed meeting.”

The scout immediately knuckled his forehead in apology. “This man says he has information about the magister and his methods, Commander.”

Dorian waved an airy hand. “Information, action, and a few tricks up my sleeves I think you’ll like.”

“Well, there can’t be all that many tricks,” Taran said—instantly blushing when all eyes turned on him. “I mean…” He gestured. “You only _have_ one. Sleeve, I mean.”

Cullen rubbed at his brow; Cassandra made an irritated noise; Dorian just ducked his head and looked _pleased_ by the bad joke, even as the scout quietly slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “Ah, yes. Quite. Either way, your spies will never get past Alexius’s magic without my help. So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

The last was said directly to the Herald, dark eyes lifting to meet golden-brown.

“The plan puts you in the most danger,” Cullen pointed out, though Cassandra couldn’t escape the feeling they no longer had Taran’s full attention. “We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this. We can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait.” He waited what felt like a long, heavy moment as Taran finally looked over to meet his eyes. Cullen snagged an iron piece and held it between his fingers, lifted in question.

_Where will we go_? it seemed to be asking. _What will we do?_

“It’s up to you,” Cullen said.

Taran swallowed, glancing around the table one last time. In the day-to-day running of the Inquisition—trekking through the Hinterlands, fighting demons, mending rifts—it was easy to forget that this boy was younger than most raw Templar initiates. Unschooled, untrained, unprepared for everything the wider world had to throw at him.

And yet, Cassandra had to admit, somehow holding his own. Taran Trevelyan had been nothing but an increasingly pleasant surprise from the moment she and Leliana stormed into that Haven dungeon, determined to make him pay for the murder of the most holy Justinia. His compassion for those who had been lost caught her off-guard at the time. It _still_ caught her off-guard, and inspired her, and made her inexplicably eager to follow a boy nearly half her age.

Knowing Taran Trevelyan, _the Herald of Andraste_ , was like knowing one of the heroes in Varric’s books. And even as she _hated_ how deeply she was already invested in how his story would play out, Cassandra could feel herself beginning to nod along as Taran lifted his chin to meet Cullen’s eyes—and jerked his head in agreement.

“I’ll do it,” he said. And, “We can’t just stand by and let the mages be enslaved. We have to do something.” He shot Dorian a quick look out of the corner of his eyes, through his lashes, almost as if he were too shy to meet his gaze head-on. “With your help.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “With my help,” he said, “you can do just about anything.”

“That seems unlikely,” Cassandra muttered mostly to herself.

Taran just smiled. “Well then,” he said as Cullen formally moved the iron pieces to converge on Redcliffe Castle. “I look forward to your help doing just about _everything_.”


	14. Dorian

“So,” Dorian said as they left the war room.

“So,” Taran echoed with a little (obnoxiously endearing) quirk of his brow. He tipped his head toward Dorian’s as they fell into step together.

Cassandra remained behind to speak with Leliana in low, tense voices. Cullen brushed past with a gravelly, “ _Trevelyan_ ,” and Josephine practically fled to her office, a worried pucker between her brows. Only Taran seemed relaxed in the face of what was about to happen—smiling, even, as if they hadn’t all just decided to put his life on the line.

Dorian wanted to take him by the ears and shake him. And then maybe kiss him breathless for good measure. “ _So_ ,” he repeated instead, keeping his voice airy by sheer force of will. “You’re to play bait for Alexius and his army of enslaved rebel mages. Isn’t that…marvelous.”

Taran actually _laughed_ at that, lightly knocking their shoulders together. “Are you worried?” he said. “You shouldn’t be. Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine are _very_ good at this sort of thing. Besides,” Taran added, that smile growing wider—honest-to-Maker dimples flashing at the corners, as if Dorian hadn’t already suffered enough. “I’ll have you there to watch my back, with all those tricks up your singular sleeve.”

Dorian made a non-committal noise to that, unable to form words.

Kaffas, he should have thought everything through before offering to _help_ them execute this mad plan. But the thing was, he wasn’t thinking; he _hadn’t_ been thinking, not since he saw Taran “die” in the Fade. And now that Taran was miraculously alive and by his side and more wonderful than Dorian could have imagined, it was all he could do to keep the shattered pieces of himself from scattering at the first strong wind.

_Thinking_ , unfortunately, was out of the question. Everything was pure instinct now, and oh how he hated that.

They stepped out into the bracing cold, white flakes wending their way down down down to shush against growing drifts. The mountains stretched imposingly tall in the distance, their white peaks lost to nightfall. Queasy green light cast strange shadows across the ice-pitted earth. This close to the breach, there was no denying its power: Dorian could _feel_ it in the air, against his skin, a prickling awareness that had him casting nervous glances up toward the ruined temple.

It felt like a malevolent eye, watching him from the darkness—and no, _no_ , he wasn’t going to let his imagination sweep him away like that. He was exhausted, that was all.

“Hey,” Taran said, stopping. He reached out to snag Dorian’s elbow, the contact enough to send a completely different kind of shiver up his spine. Dorian fought to keep the reflexive pleasure off his face as he turned to look at the boy, one brow arched in question. “It’s going to be all right, you know.”

_How can you possibly be sure of that?_

He tried for his best sardonic smile. “Oh, yes, what could possibly go wrong? Now,” he added before, Maker forbid, his brain managed to fill in some of those nightmare images (Alexius killing Taran; Alexius sacrificing Taran; Alexius giving Taran to the bloody Venatori to bloody sacrifice, because wasn’t it always blood magic and human sacrifices with that sort of lot?), “if you could point me toward where I can find a bed, I believe I’ll turn in for the night. Early morning tomorrow, what with all the riding back to Redcliffe we have to do.”

Taran blinked once, then blushed—actually _blushed_ , cheeks pinking in a way that Dorian was hard-pressed not to find utterly charming. “Oh, right, you still need a…a bed. Um.” He looked around as if one might materialize out of thin air before suddenly veering off to the left of the chapel. “This way,” he said. “I remember Josephine saying there was a small room we were using for storage…if you don’t mind sharing a bunk with crates of elfroot,” he added with a glance over his shoulder.

Dorian dutifully followed, keeping only a few steps behind the other man. He felt more comfortable when Taran was near, though he’d have to break himself of that habit sooner rather than later, unless he felt brave enough to ask whether _Taran_ was looking to share a bunk.

(And was that same thought what had Taran blushing so bright? No, no, no, he _would not_ let himself think about it. Not while he was still feeling so flat-footed and out of sorts. He needed time to pick apart the complicated ball of his feelings. Coming on to his _unu…_ his _Voice_ wouldn’t help anything.)

“I think I can manage a few boxes,” Dorian said, just a beat too late. Their feet crunched along the snowy path, flakes catching in the folds of his robe and—damn it—on his mustache. He smoothed it irritably. “Better that than a line of Cullen’s raw recruits.”

“Well, if you find it’s too cramped, there’s always room somewhere else,” Taran said. He led the way around the corner of a rough-hewn building. Across the way, Dorian spotted Solas moving past the window of another tiny hut. “The room they gave me is huge—much more than I need, really.”

Dorian felt his cheeks heating again at the confirmation that, oh yes, they had been thinking the exact same thing. He didn’t find the confirmation particularly reassuring. “Absolutely not,” he said, perhaps a touch too sharply and almost certainly too swift. “I would much prefer to share a room with the boxes, thank you.”

Taran cleared his throat and pushed open the door, carefully not looking at Dorian. Likely embarrassed, or maybe even hurt, and oh bloody void, was Dorian never going to stop putting his foot in his mouth? He fumbled to think of something else to say—something that might not sound like a callous rejection—but his thoughts kept slipping through his fingers like smoke.

“Well, here you are, then,” Taran said with an awkward gesture.

The room _was_ small, all but overflowing with crates marked with Orlesian, Ferelden, and even a few Nevarran seals. The (cold) air smelled like cedar and elfroot—pleasant enough—and there was a small but serviceable bed tucked in the far corner.

Dorian slipped past Taran and moved to inspect the bed, pressing against the mattress and noting the pile of blankets. It wasn’t his lavish room back at his father’s estate, and _that_ was enough to have him smiling wide and honest as he turned to look at his soulmate.

“This is perfect,” he said, meaning it. “Thank you, Taran.”

Taran’s smile was quickly becoming Dorian’s favorite thing in the world. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, hovering there by the open door. “If you need anything—anything at all—my cabin is across the square. Near the gates,” he added. “Just ask anyone and they’ll be able to point you.”

“I will keep that firmly in mind,” Dorian promised.

His Voice shuffled back toward the threshold, reaching blindly for the doorknob, not looking away from him. “We leave early tomorrow morning,” he said. “It’ll be you, me, Cassandra and Varric. Solas is going to stay here; I figured that would be okay, since we want to keep the party small and we already have…well…you.”

He merely meant that they already had a _mage_ , but Dorian could barely control the rush of pleasure he felt at those words. “I am happy to be had,” he said with far too much honesty before quickly adding, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Taran said, hesitating by the door another long moment before finally slipping back out into the snowy night. He closed the door behind him, and Dorian most certainly did _not_ watch him walk by the window…then move quickly to the back window to watch as Taran made his way across the courtyard, face tipped up toward the snow, until he was lost to darkness.

Alone in his room, Dorian let out a heavy sigh and flopped dramatically back onto the bed. He fell against the pillow, rubbing the meat of his palms hard into his eyes. _Maker_ , just being around Taran was making him act like a lovesick child. He hardly knew where he was, who he was—everything inside him was focused with dwarven precision on the Herald of bloody Andraste.

He dropped his hands, staring up at the ceiling. His breath formed clouds with each exhale, and he thought maybe he should yank his covers over his head and get as good a night’s sleep as he could manage before he was forced to spend another few days chasing Taran across the rolling Hinterlands.

_Or_ , a part of him whispered, _you could try to find him again in the Fade._

The idea…had its appeal. He had never much let himself seek Taran out since that fateful day he’d found him: small and afraid, hands covered in the blood of his sister. Maker, what haunted dreams his young Voice had been forced to bear. As he grew, those nightmares had faded into a dreary melancholy with bright bursts of hope keeping Taran afloat—his natural good-will fighting against the choking vines of Trevelyan House and all it represented.

And then Taran had made his way to the conclave and Dorian had lost him to green fire. Was he still there, in the Fade? He hadn’t been able to sense him there since the explosion, but maybe now that they were close, he could…

“Not yet, you bloody fool,” Dorian muttered to himself. He snagged the covers and pulled them over himself, curling on his side and glaring down the darkness, the temptation, the _draw_ to Taran’s side. It would be so easy to slip into dreams and try to trace his way back to Taran, but there was still so much he needed to straighten out in his own head before he began peeking into Taran’s. He needed to keep himself together if he was going to watch Taran’s back through this next foolcap adventure.

He needed to be thinking clearly if he was going to keep his Voice _safe_.

Closing his eyes, Dorian forced away the temptation, inured against it thanks to years of self-denial. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to relax. He had one night to take advantage of peace, quiet, and a _bed_. He planned to make the bloody most of it while he could.

_Funny thing_ , Dorian thought sourly to himself the next morning, up before dawn and fumbling to get dressed in time to meet the rest of the party. _Just because I didn’t to enter Taran’s dreams last night didn’t mean he didn’t star in all of mine._

The irony might be funny if it wasn’t so damned early.

It turned out the race back into the Hinterlands was just as miserable as the ride to Haven. Dorian clung to the back of a series of horses—traded for fresh mares at each Inquisition camp they passed—and slept on the hard ground and ate camp food and made unfortunate compromises when it came to style vs. comfort.

But one thing had _vastly_ improved from one journey to the next: this time, every time he found his gaze drifting back to Taran, he found the boy meeting his eyes with an excited smile, the light of adventure making those golden-brown eyes shine.

And even if something inside him clenched like a fist at the idea of Taran playing the bait for anyone—much less a talented mage like Alexius—every time he met that wide, dazzling grin…damned if he didn’t find himself smiling back.

“No, wait, stop,” Dorian hissed, catching Taran by the elbow before he could push his way up the steps toward the main keep—where Alexius no doubt waited for them. “I take everything back; this was a _terrible_ idea. Your advisors should all be flogged for bloody idiots.”

Taran just looked back and smiled, one hand briefly closing over Dorian’s. It would have felt wonderful if he wasn’t so twisted up with worry: seriously, _what had they been thinking_ allowing the Herald of Andraste—the sole living being who had a chance of closing rifts—a boy who had barely seen the world and all the horrors contained within it and, oh yes, who also happened to be the literal other half of his soul—walk blithely into a trap?

It was madness. It was stupidity. It was—

Taran’s smile warmed, golden-brown eyes gone softly reassuring. “It’s going to be all right,” he promised for what had to have been the hundredth time. Then, teasing: “Come one, Dorian: where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It turned tail and fled hand in hand with my _common_ _sense_ ,” Dorian said. “I haven’t seen either for days.” He pulled his hand away, however, aware that eyes might be on them already. The wheels were already well in motion, and he had a part to play, after all.

Dorian and one of Leliana’s hand-picked scouts had dressed in the highly stylized robes and golden masks of Alexius’s Venatori guard, slipping ahead to greet Taran, Cassandra, and Varric at the gates. He’d never paid honor guards much mind when he was an apprentice; now, it was a slowly tumbling series of revelations of how uncomfortable the whole get-up was proving to be.

Or were those nerves making him sweat through his fine leathers? _Venhedis_ , he felt like a leaf trembling on the breeze.

The scout tilted his head subtly toward Dorian. “We have company,” he murmured, so soft no one beyond their little circle could hear.

Taran lifted his gaze, watching as the man moved down the outer steps to greet them. Eyes locked on his Voice’s face, Dorian could see the minute hardening of his jaw—the way he tensed, all softness fading from his expression. He sounded every inch the leader of an Inquisition when he ordered, “We’ve been waiting. Announce us.”

The mage inclined his head. “I would,” he said, “but we appear to have run into something of a snag. You see, the Magister’s invitation was for Master Trevelyan only. These others will have to remain here.”

A few paces back, Cassandra dropped a hand to the hilt of her blade. Varric simply arched a brow, lips curved into a smirk. Taran glanced at him, his own brows lifting as if this were all some kind of joke. (And if it was, Dorian was absolutely not laughing.) “They have to accompany me,” Taran said, putting so much polite shock into the words that it was almost a farce. “You wouldn’t deprive me of my _attach_ _és_ , would you?”

It was a gamble, mocking the mage like this—deliberately making light of Alexius’s summons, as if this were a game and not a matter of Taran’s life or death. But even though Taran was smiling, seemingly at ease, his eyes had flashed to pure steel as he stared the man down, daring him to object.

_We both know who holds the power right now_ , he may as well have said. _And it Is. Not. You._

After a brief but heavy silence, the mage inclined his head and turned, leading the way up the steps toward the inner keep. Taran looked once between the two “guards” before passing by, his companions a few steps behind. Dorian had to force himself to count to five before he turned as well, following at a more leisurely pace. His fingers itched to grab for the staff strapped to his back, but he kept his body language loose and unconcerned, falling into the act as they moved through the threshold and down a grand hallway, up through a pair of golden doors to the main throne room.

Alexius had lit a fire in the hearth, backlighting him as he sat in the arl’s stone chair at the height of the dais. Felix was to one side of him, Dorian noted, and Fiona stood at the base of the steps, hands curled into impotent fists. More Venatori guards lined the hall a respectful ways back, but Dorian didn’t allow himself to search for movement in the shadows: he had to trust that Leliana and Cullen would see their part in all this through.

All that mattered was making sure Taran escaped this confrontation alive.

The blond mage paused at the base of the dais, turning so he was in profile. “My lord magister,” he said, inclining his head respectfully. “The agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

Alexius stood, haloed by firelight—his face completely lost to shadow. “My friend,” he said with false cheer that had a shiver working its way up Dorian’s spine. “It’s so good to see you again.” A pregnant pause. “And your…associates, of course. I’m sure we can work out an arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

Fiona pushed forward before Taran could speak. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” she demanded.

“Fiona,” Alexius said, turning cold eyes on her, “you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

“Enough pleasantries,” Taran said—and this, this was not the sweet-eyed boy Dorian had watched grow from child to young man. There was none of the hesitancy of inexperience in his voice; none of the self-doubt that would have wracked many in his situation. He stood there, shining gold and bronze in the firelight, as relaxed as if he truly were Alexius’ equal in every way. It was enough to make Dorian’s heart skip a beat. “Shall we begin?”

Alexius seemed just as impressed, though he was struggling to hide it. “It’s refreshing to meet someone so goal-oriented,” he said before turning and slowly, deliberately pacing back toward the throne. Felix cast him a quick look, brows drawn into a faintly worried pucker. _His_ lean frame was coiled tight as a spring, as if he were just waiting for the word before he sprang into action.

_What do you know?_ Dorian thought, watching his old friend carefully. _What is it he’s hiding that has you so on edge?_

There was no time to puzzle it out as Alexius continued, “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

Taran inclined his head. “I’d much rather discuss your time magic,” he said, utterly brazen.

If Dorian hadn’t known Alexius as well as he did, he may have missed the way his one-time mentor tensed. Nothing showed in his eyes, however—no emotion flickered across his face as he said, “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

“He knows everything, Father,” Felix said quietly, turning to face the throne.

This time, Alexius couldn’t hide the emotion that flashed across his weathered face. “Felix,” he said, voice gone deep, hard. “What have you done?”

“Your son is concerned that you’re involved in something terrible,” Taran said.

Those furious eyes turned on Taran, Alexius’s fury palpable—terrifying. “So speaks the _thief_ ,” he hissed, and there was so much rage in his voice that Dorian edged an anxious step closer to his Voice. “Do you think you can turn my son against me?”

He gripped the edges of the throne as he rose, backlit by fire, terrible to behold. Power crackled in the air, and Taran and Dorian were the only ones who didn’t take an unconscious step back. Barely leashed violence echoed in every taut line of Alexius’s body. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark,” Alexius said, the voice his own but the words sounding foreign on his tongue, as if they belonged to someone else, “a gift you don’t even understand—and think _you’re_ in control?”

Taran moved forward a step, eyes locked with Alexius’s—keeping his attention.

Alexius curled his upper lip, glowering down at him. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

“If you know so much, enlighten me,” Taran challenged. “Tell me what this mark on my hand is for.”

Alexius looked like a storybook villain—he looked nothing like the man Dorian had once admired. There was murder in his eyes, and some terrible purpose in the line of his body as he said (in that cold voice, using those words that sounded like scripture handed down from a wicked god): “It belongs to your betters. You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose.”

Felix jerked forward, reaching out for his father. “Father, listen to yourself,” he pleaded. Alexius began to turn toward him, focus wavering. “Do you know what you sound like?”

_Damn_ Felix. Dorian could appreciate the sentiment, but now wasn’t the time for sentimentality. There were shadows moving about the corners of the room—Leliana’s men slipping into place—and if Alexius’s attention didn’t stay fixed on the all-too-tempting target that was the Herald of Andraste, then there was every chance this plan was doomed to failure. They needed to keep Alexius off-balance, distracted.

Which meant it was time to save the day with a bit of well-timed grandstanding.

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be,” Dorian said in a ringing voice, moving to stand at Taran’s side. He reached up, dramatically pulling off the golden mask and letting it drop from his fingers—he needed his hands free to grab for his staff at a moment’s notice.

Alexius’s head snapped back around, eyes narrowing. Ah. It was good to know he could still command a room. “ _Dorian_ ,” his old master said. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down.” Before Dorian could say anything to that, Alexius shook off Felix’s anxious grip and stepped forward, voice dropping—going cold again. “The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“That’s who you serve?” Taran asked. “The one who killed the Divine? Is he a mage?”

Alexius’s lips curved into a hollow mockery of a smile. “Soon he will become a god. He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

From the sidelines, Fiona shouted, “You can’t involve my people in this!”

“Alexius,” Dorian said, subtly moving toward the steps, half in front of Taran. He could sense the argument coming to some conclusion, though Maker take him if he knew what it might be. “This is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen. Why would you support this?”

In the distance, there was a soft gurgle, a spatter of blood, a scrape of steel on steel as inert bodies were carefully lowered to the floor. Pacing back and forth along the dais, Alexius was too distracted to notice.

Good.

“Stop it, Father,” Felix begged, playing his part now as if he had the full script. “Give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

“No,” Alexius said, turning back to his son. The fury was gone, the cold murder fled from his eyes. Now he just looked…old. Old and sad and three seconds away from breaking. “It’s the only way, Felix. He can save you.”

“ _Save_ me?”

He lifted a hand. “There _is_ a way,” he said—quieter, mostly to himself. “The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…” Grey eyes focused again on Taran. Dorian felt himself go cold. He fumbled back for his staff even as Taran stepped forward, moving toward the steps as if to confront Alexius face to face.

_No_ , Dorian thought, panic growing, though he still couldn’t say _why_. _No, no, not you. Not like this._

“…to die,” Felix was saying. “You need to accept that.”

Alexius pointed down at Taran, hand trembling. “Seize them, Venatori,” he snarled, voice echoing loud in the cavernous hall. “The Elder One demands this man’s life!”

There was no response.

Alexius whirled toward where his men lined the shadows, just as Inquisition scouts and soldiers stepped forward—armor spattered with blood, steel in hand, expressions grim.

“Your men are dead, Alexius,” Taran said, voice even, unafraid.

“ _You_ ,” Alexius hissed, eyes narrowing down down down on Taran. He bared his teeth as if he wanted to come flying from the dais to wrap his fingers around Taran’s throat. “You are a _mistake_. You should never have existed!”

He lifted his palm, green fire sparking, a strangely familiar amulet rising up into the air.

Dorian _felt_ the spell as it crackled to life. He sucked in a breath, grabbing for Taran’s arm—intending to yank him back safely behind him—even as he swung his staff with all his might. “ _No!_ ” he shouted, the spell already lifting in a crackling shield around them.

The spells collided with a hollow _crack_ , like black ice giving way beneath an unwary tread. Dorian was thrown back a pace, caught in Taran’s arms as—as _oh bloody Maker_ —as a tear opened in the space between them and Alexius. It widened quickly, sucking the air down like a whirlpool; his robes flapped around his legs as they were caught in the undertow, and Dorian cried out as he was jerked forward. It felt as if something had him about the ankle, pulling—only Taran’s desperate grip kept him from flying away.

Steel screeched against stone as _Taran_ was dragged with him, mailed boots digging furrows in the flagstones. He had both hands gripping one of Dorian’s, his eyes huge with frightened determination as they were both sucked into the growing hole in the world.

“No, _stop_ ,” Dorian tried to yell, but there was no air in his lungs, no way to shout over the growing maelstrom. “Let me go!”

He didn’t want to die, but he would rather fall into the void than take Taran with him. He had to get free, he had to wrench away, he had to— Had to—

Taran’s grip tightened just as that terrible pressure _yanked_ at Dorian’s legs. The world was closing in on a solid point of light, getting farther and farther away with each terrified pulse of his rapid heartbeat—pounding pounding panicked terror as he tumbled back into Alexius’s spell…

…his soulmate’s determined grip on his wrist the final lingering impression he had of the world they left behind.

And then, nothing.


	15. Taran

It was dark and cold, dark and cold, dark and cold—and then, with a splash, it was dark and cold and _wet_ , brackish water closing over Taran’s head as awareness came rushing back in a frigid wave.

He surged up with a sputter, drenched hair plastered to his forehead and streaming into his eyes. Cold hands bracketed his jaw immediately, thumbs stroking over his cheeks, _Dorian’s_ anxious face swimming into view as Taran blinked away his shock.

“By the Maker, for a moment, I thought…” Dorian began in Tevene. “I was here in this _place_ , and you hadn’t yet appeared, and I thought…”

Taran reached up on instinct, wrapping his hands around Dorian’s wrists even as he straightened to meet his eyes. They were both kneeling in disgustingly grey-green water in some sort of cell; the queasy light seemed to hang heavy around them, oppressive, and Dorian was as wan as Taran had ever seen him—terrified. Visibly shaken and _shaking_.

“Hey,” Taran said, also in (only semi-broken) Tevene. He brushed his thumbs along Dorian’s racing pulse. His voice sounded rusty, worn, even to his own ears. “It’s okay. We made it through to...um, this place…together.” Though void only knew where _this place_ actually was. Taran offered a crooked smile, pushing aside that worry in favor of offering what comfort he could. “You can ask Varric if you don’t believe me, but I’m actually pretty hard to get rid of.”

Dorian let out a harsh puff of breath—a not-quite laugh—dark gaze sweeping anxiously over and over Taran’s face as if reassuring himself that he was _real_. Real and whole and not scattered apart by whatever spell Alexius had thrown at them. His dark eyes seemed to focus bit by bit, expression relaxing from stark terror to relief and even a little curiosity as Taran remained stubbornly whole and _alive_.

Then, slowly, he leaned back, letting go.

Taran reluctantly let him, fingers curling and uncurling at the new emptiness. He looked around to distract himself, climbing to his feet. The air had a strange green tint to it, and (holy Maker) huge hunks of red lyrium grew out of the walls. The ceiling was crumbling in on itself a few feet away, a fitful waterfall pouring through the cracks. They appeared to be in a cell, the door half-open to the rest of the prison beyond, hinges rusted with disuse. “…huh,” Taran said.

Dorian snagged his staff from the deep pool and used it to pull himself up. The color was coming back to his cheeks—perhaps a little _too_ well? Was Dorian actually flushing?

Taran began to turn to him, but before he could say anything (ask any questions, make any reassurances) an unfamiliar voice called out from just past the cell: “Blood of the Elder One!”

Taran’s attention snapped toward the door, where _two_ soldiers were pushing their way in, swords drawn. The second grabbed the rusting metal bar and yanked the door shut behind them to block any escape—he could hear the latch catching even as Taran reached back to unsheathe his huge sword.

“Get behind me,” he told Dorian, even as the second guard muttered, “Where’d _they_ come from?”

Taran didn’t give them a chance to do more. He swung in with an instant sense of purpose, focus, using all his strength to bring his blade slicing toward an unprotected join of metal and leather. The guard cried out, jerking the flat of his blade around to deflect; the familiar clang of steel on steel echoed through Taran like a song, and he was already grimly smiling as he fell into the familiar dance of strike, counter-strike, cleave.

A cool wind passed his cheek, close as a kiss, and ice crystals spread across one of the guard’s chestplate seconds before frozen spikes erupted from the gashes left by his blade. Taran bobbed and wove around the spells that Dorian cast, somehow anticipating them despite the two of them never fighting together before. It was exhilarating— _doing_ something in the face of his mounting confusion was exhilarating—and he let himself fall into the almost meditative calm of the familiar even as the whole world was literally crumbling apart around him.

It didn’t last long. The second guard dropped lifeless into the water seconds after his companion, eddies of red swirling around Taran’s calves. He pulled his blade back, letting the man sink, and closed his eyes in a seconds-long sending of his spirit—sorry, as always, for the lives he’d had no choice but to take.

Then he turned back to Dorian, checking him over briefly; all looked well. (And he couldn’t help but think Dorian was eyeing him for injuries in the exact same way.) “Well,” Taran said, quickly cleaning his blade before slinging it back onto its simple harness. “That was bracing. I should have tried to keep one alive for questioning, but I worried that…”

“No,” Dorian interrupted, re-sheathing his staff as well. “There could be more guards who would have heard if they called for help. We made the right choice.” Then his gaze fell on the closed-and-locked cell door and he let out a breath. “Kaffas. We may call attention to ourselves busting out of here, however.”

“However we got here…wherever _here_ is.” Taran looked around the small cell, then sighed and moved to inspect the bodies. It had only taken a few days fighting at Cassandra’s side before he’d firmly internalized the importance of being thorough—and this time, the lesson paid off. “This one’s got a keyring!” Taran said, pulling it out with a flourish. He gave the ring a little shake, turning a relieved smile on Dorian.

Dorian didn’t seem to hear him. He was standing in the middle of the room, water up to his knees, staring at the shards of red lyrium thrust through the walls. His brows were knit together, fingers of one hand cupping his elbow as he stroked his mustache with the other. “Displacement?” he murmured to himself, turning a slow, full circle as he took in their cell as if for the first time. “Interesting!”

“Sure,” Taran said, straightening. He offered another crooked smile when Dorian looked at him. “We can go with _interesting._ Do you have any idea what happened? Why did Alexius send us… _here_?”

 Dorian tapped his upper lip thoughtfully. “It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The Rift must have moved us…to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?” He looked down again, studying the flagstones all but lost beneath the rush of water.

“The last thing I remember, we were in the castle hall.”

Dorian tilted his head. “Mm, yes—me as well. What’s more, the stonework seems markedly Ferelden, don’t you think? So we can’t have gone far. And this.” He gestured to whatever he’d been studying, and Taran waded closer, grateful for the excuse to be near. This place had his skin crawling, no matter that he kept trying to tell himself it was just an adventure.  Like something from the Warden’s tales.

He stood next to Dorian, their shoulders lightly brushing, and looked down where the other man was pointing. There was…something…in the water. Something round and reflecting what little light passed through.

A grate?

 _No_ , Taran realized as he squinted—a _seal_. An arl’s seal, and a familiar one at that.

“That’s the seal of Redcliffe,” Taran said, recognizing it from Josephine’s many, many, _many_ reports.

Dorian hummed an agreement. “Delightful Ferelden custom, decorating cells with House seals—as if rotting away in here wouldn’t be bad enough without having to spend your days staring at proof of your jailor’s power. But all that aside, what this means is we aren’t far from where we began. We’re _still_ in Redcliffe castle.”

“So Alexius teleported us deeper into the castle?” Taran looked around again, taking in the jutting red crystals, the crumbling rock, the slow waterfall. “I don’t know, Dorian. I’ve never met the arl of Redcliffe, but this doesn’t seem right.”

“Nothing seems right here,” Dorian agreed. He began to pace, Venatori robes swirling about his legs. “Let’s see,” he said, thinking aloud. “If we’re still in the castle, it isn’t… Oh! Of course!” Dorian turned toward Taran, expression brightening, looking almost _excited,_ as if he’d discovered some dubiously wonderful surprise. “It’s not simply where—it’s when! Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!”

Taran blinked. “Moved us through _time_?” he said slowly. “Can that even be done?”

Dorian’s whole body seemed alight with new energy and curiosity despite their increasingly dire-sounding circumstances. “Normally, I would say no. Obviously Alexius has taken his research to exciting new heights.”

“Um, yes, very exciting.”

“We’ve seen his temporal rifts before, of course,” Dorian continued. “This time we simply…passed through one.”

He was going to have to take that on faith. The little Taran knew about magic came from Solas or tales of his two older sisters—Aria, who’d spent all of his life locked in the Kirkwall Circle, and Josselyn. Both had struggled with demons and neither—far as he knew—had worked with anything like _time magic._ Even Solas’s wonderful tales of distant dreams didn’t sound like _this._ “What was Alexius trying to do?” Taran asked, increasingly on edge.

Dorian must have heard the strained note in his voice. He turned at once to look at him, dark eyes scanning his face as he seemed to instinctively move forward; Taran let out a breath, relaxing minutely with Dorian close by his side. “I believe his original plan was to remove you from time completely,” Dorian said, some of that intrigued excitement faded, gone serious. “If that happened, you would never have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or mangled his Elder One’s Plan. I think your surprise in the castle hall made him reckless. He tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it, the magic went wild, and here we are. Make sense?”

“It just seems so insane.”

Dorian let out a puff of breath. “Admittedly, most highly theoretical magic sounds a little mad at first. It was reckless, what Alexius did. I don’t even want to _think_ about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn’t travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy.”

Taran…didn’t want to think about that either. There were enough holes in the world for him to worry about already. “There were others in the hall,” he said, focusing on what mattered now. “Could they have been drawn through the rift?”

“I doubt it was large enough to bring the whole room through,” Dorian said. “Alexius wouldn’t risk catching himself or Felix in it. They’re probably still where, and when, we left them. In some sense, anyway.”

So there went any hope of allies in this strange place. Taran anxiously toyed with the ring of keys, looking toward the cell door. Somewhere in this castle, there were answers to all of the questions still swirling around them. When were they, how had everything gotten this bad, what did it mean now that he and Dorian existed out of time. And, perhaps most pressing: “What happens if we _can’t_ get back?”

Dorian reached out to rest a hand on Taran’s arm. He couldn’t feel it through the armor, but staring at those elegant fingers splayed wide over the bronze-and-gold, Taran felt himself slowly begin to warm.

It was…odd, how intensely he felt about this man he’d only just met. How long had it been? Maker, less than a week. He had known Dorian _less than a week_ , and already he felt this undeniable _pull_ toward him. As if he were a ship tossed about the Waking Sea, and Dorian was the anchor holding him in place. Or… Or maybe more like the compass pointing him toward true north. Or any number of tortured allegories he could dream up: the point was, Taran’s quiet, grey world had changed in a flash of green power at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and everything had been a sprint downhill ever since. And yet despite every change, every challenge, every triumph and failure and growing camaraderie he was feeling for the first time in his lonely little life, _Dorian_ outshown everyone and everything. He was at once the most exciting and the most _calming_ change in Taran’s life, and Taran had the sense he’d be trying to work out that contradiction for a long, long time.

Dorian had grabbed his chaotic world and somehow shaken everything back into place again…and _oh Andraste save him_ , but here Taran was staring moonily at the other man for Maker knew how bloody long, like some kind of mudbrain fool.

“Um,” Taran said, cheeks instantly flaming with heat.

Dorian’s smile was slow and incandescent. He patted cold steel before letting go. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice suspiciously husky. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

He had no words. No thoughts. Nothing but a creeping sense that he would do just about anything for this man he barely knew—and he couldn’t bring himself to care that it made _no sense_. He and Dorian were trapped together in some hellish maybe-past, maybe-future, and it was all going to be all right.

They were together, after all.

Taran wet his lips. “Yes,” he said, flustered, flushing, completely out of his depth and drowning in emotion. Maker, what was it about this man? “I…you too.”

Dorian’s smile was a small, shy thing, making him look younger than his…oh, well, Andraste, he didn’t even know how old Dorian was. He barely knew anything _about_ him. But that didn’t stop Taran from reaching out to just let their fingers brush together once—warmth against warmth, something bigger than this whole frightening mess blooming in his chest at the look Dorian gave him—then forced himself to turn away and focus on the task ahead.

There’d be time to work through the tangled mess of this rapidly growing crush _later_. For now…they had work to do.

He sorted through the keys until he found the one that opened the cell door. The rest of the cells were just as dismal as theirs, red lyrium erupting in violent, softly _humming_ clusters—no pattern, no logic, nothing but sighing malevolence. Taran shivered and led the way up a set of broken stairs and past a creepily pitted statue of Maferath toward the upper cells. These were somehow worse, lyrium glistening along the carved stone walls and winking from the shadows.

At his side, Dorian shivered. “Alexius has made a dreadful mess of this place, hasn’t he?” he murmured.

“I didn’t see this part of the castle,” Taran said. It felt better to talk, as if their voices were somehow beating back the darkness, but he kept to a whisper just in case there were more guards ahead. “When you snuck in earlier, did you see anything? Was it at all like this?”

Dorian snorted. “It was covered in the tackiest carvings of wolves and dogs I’d ever seen.” They passed a violent spike of lyrium, a long-dead soldier impaled by the sharp point. Most of his leathers had rotted away, and the exposed bone gleamed red red red. “This is not an improvement.”

Taran cast him a quick look, catching the flash of quickly hidden worry in his eyes. Dorian was so obviously trying to hold himself together, leaning on curiosity and humor as a distraction from the anxiety slowly ratcheting up between them. But that fear was a palpable thing—thick and undeniable, growing stronger and stronger the longer they prowled through this strange place…

…and nearly hitting a fever pitch when they reached the softly singing mage.

“Andraste blessed me, Andraste blessed me,” the mage sighed, voice gone whisper-soft and tragic. He stood by his cell door, vibrating in place, an odd red tracer emanating from his eyes. “My tears are my sins, my sins, my sins…”

“Oh _Maker_ ,” Taran breathed. He started forward, instinctively reaching out; Dorian caught his arm.

“Wait,” Dorian said, that fear, that horror, bright in his eyes again. There was no hiding it now as he looked between Taran and the mage—at the aura of sickly red surrounding him. Spikes of lyrium erupted from the wall around him, but he barely seemed to notice. “You shouldn’t go close. He may be infectious. There’s no telling what…”

He trailed off, staring horrified as the familiar mage sang off-key and swayed in place.

Taran gently pulled away from Dorian’s grip, going to the cell. He reached for the keyring he still carried, testing each key until one finally turned in the lock. The door screeched its protest as it was swung open, but the mage didn’t respond—didn’t move—didn’t blink. He simply stood there, oblivious to his freedom, swaying back and forth as he quietly sang.

He could feel his heart breaking. “What did they do to you?” Taran breathed.

There was a soft footfall as Dorian moved behind him, close. “He’s long gone,” he said, voice low.

“Maybe if we find a way to snap him out of it,” Taran began, but Dorian simply caught his arm again and tugged him back a step, away from the open cell and its lone prisoner.

“No,” Dorian said— _gently_ , as if he could sense the horror building like a rising wave inside of Taran. “He’s lost in himself; we can’t save him.”

 _We have to try_ , he wanted to shout, but… But Maker, he already knew Dorian was right. That mage, that man, was a shell of a person. He could hear the soft hum of red lyrium threaded through each word, and there was nothing but an endless red reflection in his eyes.

There was nothing left _to_ save.

Taran sucked in a breath and turned away, breaking from Dorian’s gentle grip again—moving quickly _away_ from the open cell. He wanted to…he wanted to _scream_ , or slam his fist into the wall, or track down Alexius and force him to _fix this_. The world was crumbling madness around him, and each step only took them deeper into a nightmare that felt like it had been ripped from his very past. His skin prickled and he couldn’t quite shake the tendrils of half-buried memory: the waves crashing against the shore; Josselyn’s dissonant voice as she sang him a lullaby, eyes gone blank; the hot spatter of blood across his cheeks.

“ _Taran!_ ” Dorian hissed, but he was already half-sprinting up the steps, sword in hand, dark memories nipping at his heels. It was almost a relief to stumble across guards—normal, living guards without that haunting in their eyes.

He swung into the fight with reckless abandon, trusting his instincts to lead him out of this dance alive. Dorian’s spells swirled around him, and they once again fell into that effortless tempo, as if they could read each other’s minds even after so short a time. That, somehow, was soothing; the _battle_ was soothing. It was familiar, and real, and nothing like the haunting shade of long-ago nightmares.

When it was over, Taran and Dorian stood there breathing heavily, staring at each other. The Venatori lay at their feet, and everything was briefly still.

Then Dorian swung his staff back into its scabbard and stepped over a body to reach him. “Taran,” he began— _gentle_ , as if talking to a child. “What we are seeing here, what has happened—we have no proof that it is _real_. Or that, if it is some future, it is destined to come true. We cannot know—”

“I know,” Taran said. He closed his eyes against the old terror gibbering inside of him, swallowing back the fear, the doubt, the self-recrimination. If this _were_ some kind of future, then obviously it was a glimpse of what the world would become if he failed. Right? Old friends and acquaintances and…and _everyone_ walking around like hollow shells of themselves: Josselyn in every face he saw. “I know,” he said again. “We’ll have to… I have to fix this.”

“Taran,” Dorian said again, reaching for him, but Taran turned and moved toward one of the far doors—down into another set of cells again. If he let Dorian comfort him now, he might not be able to keep from pressing into that freely given warmth. He might not be able to be strong and, and bloody fucking well _fix this_.

A voice echoed up from the cell; Taran lifted his hand for silence, moving slowly down the crumbling steps toward it. He forced himself to focus, zeroing in on the eerily-familiar tone, fumbling through all-too-familiar words.

“The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

There was that strange dissonance again, red lyrium humming through each word, as if its song had sunk deep into the speaker’s throat. But there was more life in that tone than in the mage’s chant, and as Taran crept closer, the familiar inflection grew stronger and stronger until—

He dropped his sword, moving quickly to the cell. “ _Cassandra_ ,” he breathed, hands shaking as he reached for the bars.

She looked up, red eyes glowing eerily bright, skin stretched tight across her skull—a Mortalitasi in everything but truth. “You’ve returned to us!” she gasped, staring at him with open shock. _Reverence_. Oh Maker, _hope_ , as if he somehow had all the answers instead of just more questions. “Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?”

Taran’s hands shook as he grabbed for the keyring, unlocking the cell and pulling it open. “Cassandra,” he said, only to trail back into silence. He had no idea what he could possibly say to her that would bring anything but more pain.

“Maker forgive me,” she said, looking up at him with such naked loss that it hurt to meet her eyes. “I failed you—I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life.”

“You look wounded,” he said, moving in to help her to her feet. Dorian hovered just outside the cell, Taran’s abandoned sword held awkwardly in his hands. “Maybe we can help.”

She leaned against him, head tipping toward his as if to soak in his strength. He could feel Dorian’s unease, but he ignored it, slipping an arm around her waist as she regained her balance. “Nothing you do can help me now,” she said, and his heart broke again at the quiet acceptance in her tone. Those were the words of a woman who had already bowed to her fate. “I’ll be with the Maker soon.”

“No,” Taran said. “We can find a way to fix this.”

“Such faith you always had,” Cassandra murmured. “But…how are you here? Alive?” She straightened, looking at him again as if he were a ghost—or Andraste given form before her. “I was _there_. The magister obliterated you with a gesture.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “From what I can gather, Alexius sent us forward in time. If we find him, we may be able to return to the present.”

“Go back in time?” Cassandra pulled back from both of them, staring between them. “Then…can you make it so that none of this ever took place?”

“That’s my hope,” Taran said, wishing with everything he had that he could make it a promise.

Cassandra met his eyes, holding them for what felt like a long, long time. Then, slowly, she nodded—understanding. “Alexius’s master,” she finally continued. “After you died,” Dorian flinched, “we could not stop the Elder One from rising. Empress Celene was murdered. The army that swept in afterwards—it was a horde of demons. Nothing stopped them. Nothing.”

“I should have been there to help you,” Taran said, feeling the guilt, the anguish, the near-unstoppable drive to fight his way to Alexius and _make this right_ rising up inside of him. The thought of his friends—his _family_ ; the only family he had left—fighting alone, struggling alone, dying alone…

Maker. _Maker._ He would throw himself into the very void if it meant stopping _that_.

Cassandra’s expression smoothed at whatever she read in his eyes. She reached out, Taran meeting her halfway by instinct, and clasped his forearm the way he’d seen Inquisition troops greet each other: brothers in battle.

Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Well,” she said, ruined voice echoing with lyrium’s dark song. “You’re here now.”


	16. Leliana

The Venatori stalked back and forth in front of where she had been hung, bristling like an angry cat. If she had any emotion left in her after all this time, she might have smiled. “How did Trevelyan know of the sacrifice at the Temple?” he demanded. Then, as if he thought he could somehow cow her into obedience: “Answer!”

“Never,” Leliana hissed—crying out at the dull ache of the man’s backhand. It didn’t hurt as much as the blade—as much as the magic that sank deep into her bones like venom—but she’d found it was best to play along. The weaker she seemed, the readier to break at even harsher handling, the less likely the Venatori were to revert back to their toys.

A little roughing up couldn’t kill her; that line of blood-rusted instruments just might.

Thankfully for Leliana, this was a particularly stupid spellbinder. He took her whimpering at face value. “There’s no use to this defiance, little bird. There’s no one left for you to protect.”

That was all too true. “You’re wasting your breath,” she said, grunting at the thud of his gauntleted fist to her stomach. Broken bones cried out, but Leliana grit her teeth against the _real_ pain, squirreling it away even as she gave the Venatori a hint of what he wanted.

 _Bide your time_ , she told herself, even though Maker knew there wasn’t anyone left to come to her rescue. Unless Cassandra and Varric managed to make it free, but ah, no, giving those vague hopes real shape was a good way to go mad. Best not think of them rotting away in their cells. _Survive this day, then think about the next._

“Talk!” the spellbinder snarled, getting right up into her face. She could feel the heat of his breath, even through that ridiculous mask. “The Elder One demands answers.”

She had to laugh. The Elder One was a greedy god: he’d demanded, and claimed, almost everything already. And yet, “He’ll get used to disappointment,” Leliana said. She screamed at the man’s backhand, letting her head fall back as she rattled her chains. Perhaps a touch _too_ dramatically, betraying too much of the real strength she’d been holding in reserve; when she rolled her head back to look at him, the Venatori was studying her with a thoughtful air.

Andraste’s blessed fire, what now?

“I think you are toying with me, little bird,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. She watched through narrowed eyes as the spellbinder moved to that rickety table, fingertips brushing lightly over the handles of various unpleasant blades and…other things…before closing his fingers around one. Its tip was nearly black with dried blood, and Leliana braced herself against the promise of real pain—in a few seconds, her screams would be all too real.

Still, she held the man’s eyes, letting him see the hatred in her face. _I’m not your little bird_ , she thought, baring her teeth when he stepped close. _I have claws and teeth that will gladly rip your throat out. Just give me a chance._

He pressed a hand to her chin, jerking back her head. “You will break,” he snarled, blade kissing her skin.

“I will die first,” she said, making it a vow.

Before he could answer, the door swung open with a solid _bang_ , reverberating off the opposite wall. Leliana looked up even as the Venatori turned, and the breath was momentarily punched out of her.

There, standing in his gleaming armor, sword in hand and young face exactly how she remembered it was the _Herald of Andraste_. He hadn’t aged a day since the moment he’d died, and Leliana cast a quick prayer of thanksgiving toward the heavens even as she gathered her carefully rationed strength. The final battle was clearly nigh: it was now or never. “Or you will!” she spat, jerking herself up—curling her body in on itself and grabbing the surprised mage with her unbound legs. She met Taran’s startled gaze even as she hooked her calves about the Venatori’s throat, yanking him close to her and tightening against his struggles.

She could probably suffocate him this way—draw out his pain and let it last and last and last the way her own torture had extended out into a single blistering-bright line. But if Taran (and Dorian? Odd to see him here, too) had been sent back by the Maker, then clearly time was of the essence.

She tightened her core, braced herself for the wrenching pain, and jerked _hard_ , effortlessly snapping her torturer’s neck.

He instantly slumped, and Leliana let him fall into a forgotten heap, drawing in a ragged breath. She watched as Taran quickly sheathed his blade and hurried over to her, checking the manacles holding her in place before crouching at the guard’s side without having to be told.

Smart boy. He’d shown so much promise when he’d been alive.

Alive.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Leliana breathed, catching sight of Varric and Cassandra guarding the open door. Good—they’d survived too. Or had they died in their cells, only to be brought back by whatever holy magic had returned the Herald to her?

It didn’t matter.

Taran straightened, keys in hand, and made quick work of the manacles holding her suspended. “You’re safe now,” he soothed, carefully— _gently_ —catching her against him. She was aware of the scent of leather and metal and horseflesh and sunshine. The lemon-and-rosemary-infused soap he preferred. Strange that she’d remember such a small detail.

Leliana pushed that thought aside, straightening despite the protest of her aching body. “Forget ‘safe’. If you came back from the dead, you need to do better than ‘safe’. You need to end this.” Taran pulled back from her, startled, but he didn’t protest or try to coddle her. That was something else she’d always appreciated about him. “The magister’s probably in his chambers.” She limped past him—and the Tevinter mage who’d wrapped himself up in this whole mess only to die alongside Taran on that horrible day—crouching before the chest. Unlocked, because her captors never dreamed she’d find her way free.

More fools they.

Dorian cleared his throat as she pulled out her armor and weapons. “You…aren’t curious how we got here?”

“No,” she said, tugging on the familiar purple leathers. She sensed Taran at her elbow and half-turned, eyes flicking from his face to the duo of small bottles he offered her. Ah. Elfroot. Yes, that would be a good idea. Leliana inclined her head in thanks and took both one after the other, letting the glass fall to the floor in a rainbow of glistening shards.

Then she slung her bow over her shoulder and adjusted the quiver.

Dorian cleared his throat again, clearly unsettled by the silence. “Alexius sent us into the future,” he explained. That gave her pause, but she mentally shrugged and went back to checking her knives. Back from the dead, back from the past—what did it really matter, in the end? The Herald was here, now, and they finally had a real hope of fighting back. “This, his victory, his Elder One—it was never meant to be.”

Taran finally spoke again. “I’m so sorry for—” he began, before stopping himself. Remembering, perhaps, the way she used to bristle in the face of his empathy. It shouldn’t have touched her so deeply that he remembered, and yet here, at the end of the world, Leliana almost found herself beginning to smile. “If we get back to the present and stop Alexius, then you’ll never have to go through this.”

“And mages always wonder why people fear them,” she said, that hint of softness disappearing beneath a new wave of bitterness. She turned her gaze on Dorian. “No one should have this power.”

“It’s dangerous and unpredictable,” he agreed, then sighed. _Sighed,_ as if wistfully remembering experiments past. “Before the Breach, nothing we did—”

“Enough!” Leliana snapped, staring him down. She didn’t need the reminder that Dorian had had a hand in creating the very spell that had broken the world. If she let herself think about it—if she really came to grips with how strong a role he had inadvertently played in bringing this day to pass—she wouldn’t be able to hold herself back.

Her life had been ruined in part by this man, and he was talking about the dangers of his little experiment as if she hadn’t lived through them by the grace of the Maker. “This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. But it was real, and you cannot escape your part in it. _I_ suffered. The whole world suffered.”

Dorian swallowed, hard, and Taran moved closer to him. Ah yes, how could she have forgotten _that_ —the way the Herald looked at Dorian, his heart clear in those golden-brown eyes? Taran lightly touched Dorian’s arm and Dorian reached up to brush his fingertips along the boy’s knuckles, gaze flicking up to his before pulling resolutely away. So he was still playing those foolish games, even now.

“We should get moving,” Taran said. “Are you able?”

Leliana inclined her head, falling into step just behind him as he left the room that had meant to be her grave. Cassandra gave her a subtle nod as she passed, and Varric actually winked—though even he couldn’t hide his shock at the sight of her. She must look terrible if he was trying so hard to pretend everything was all right.

It didn’t matter.

They crept down the empty hall, passing corpses—some fresh, some long dead. Cassandra and Varric carefully flanked Taran, defending him. She and Dorian took up the rear. He glanced at her awkwardly, polite enough to ignore the way she struggled to keep up. “What happened while we were away?” he finally asked.

“Stop talking.”

Dorian let out a short huff of breath. “I’m just asking for information,” he protested.

She turned her head, fixing him with a flat stare. “No,” she said, “you’re talking to fill silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

His eyes dropped, fingers tightening around his staff. If she had it in her anymore, she may have felt sorry for him. “I suppose you are right,” Dorian admitted, then fell silent again.

They moved up a series of steps and out into an open space. A metal overhang overlooked a bridge down below, fresh Venatori bodies sprawled here or there. Water tumbled from a broken bit of roof up above, and red lyrium erupted into jagged clusters, casting the world in eerie light.

She could hear its humming deep in her blood; it took everything Leliana had to push that creeping awareness away.

“We need to find Alexius,” Dorian murmured as they crossed another hall and down a short flight of stairs. “I’m sure he’ll be in the nicer part of the castle. …if there is one.”

“Wait,” Taran said, lifting one hand. There was a strange crackle, like distant thunder or falling stone, and Leliana instinctively braced herself before she realized—oh Maker, _yes_. That growing green light was coming from Taran’s hand.

A rift was close. A rift was close, and the one man who had the power to close it was miraculously _back_ in their lives.

“Shit, kid,” Varric said, sounding almost close to tears—as if he’d made the exact same jump as Leliana.

Cassandra just shook her head, drawing her sword. “Thank the Maker,” she said feelingly before charging through an open doorway and into the waiting hall. Green fire erupted, casting shadows across their faces, as she gave a fiercely glad bellow.

Taran swung his sword free and raced to follow, the rest of them at his heels.

Leliana stayed back a few paces, hugging the wall and shooting arrows into the fray. Mostly, however, she just watched. It had been a long (long, _long_ ) time since she’d witnessed the Herald in action. More than that, perhaps, it had been a long time since she’d watched her allies fight with any real purpose. After his death…loss…whatever…they had fought bravely but without much hope. With no one left who could close the rifts, fighting demons was a matter of losing by degrees. They could wipe out individuals and perhaps win small measures of peace, but the rift still remained and the demons would always, always come back.

Now, Varric was all but grinning as he sent bolt after bolt into shades. Cassandra gave a bellow that echoed off the walls, and the fight was filled with so much life and purpose that Leliana’s heavy heart almost lifted. Watching Taran lower his sword and thrust a hand up toward the rift, power arcing between the two before he closed his fist and sealed it with a jerk had actual _tears_ in her eyes—and here she’d thought she’d long ago shed her last.

Leliana slowly lowered her bow, watching as Varric pounded the Herald on the back and Cassandra turned away, one hand lifted as if to dash away her own tears. Even Dorian was smiling, breathless, though he couldn’t possibly comprehend exactly how big this was for them. The moment felt so much like a victory that Leliana was almost tempted to let herself sink fully into it.

But that would mean giving up the fight, even just for a moment. She couldn’t allow that. She couldn’t let herself relax into hope, because that way led to comfort, to complacency, to… Well. To the end of everything. She knew; she had watched it happen. And she would be damned if she stood by and watched it again.

_Not when there is still breath in my lungs._

“Come,” Leliana said sharply, slinging her bow over a shoulder and moving to a large metal gate. Taran quickly stepped in to help her turn the crank, lifting the gate for everyone to pass. The mood in their little party was surprisingly light, for all that they still had so much farther to go…but it darkened again, bit by bit, as the path led them through a rough hallway and out toward the sound of open water.

A woman’s voice echoed from far away, strange and terrible: “The magister needs more power for his rituals.”

“No, don’t hurt me, Linnea!” a man cried. “You know me!”

“We should—” Dorian began, head jerking up.

“—hurry,” Taran finished for him, already darting forward. Cassandra was at his heels in an instant, Varric not far behind, and Leliana limped toward the rear. She grit her teeth against the bright starbursts of pain, growing brighter and brighter the farther she pushed her body. Before long, even she would reach her limit; endless days of torture had sapped away more of her strength than elfroot could cure.

 _Keep going_ , she told herself, moving toward the sound of battle. _Whatever happens, you must keep going._

She reached the docks just as the party was finishing another battle; a shade screamed and melted into black tar, then nothing. Blood spattered what looked like a makeshift altar, and bodies were piled in haphazard stacks—sightless eyes staring up toward spikes of red lyrium, mouths forever open in twisted screams.

Taran let out a harsh breath. “How could it have gotten this bad?” he said, still not understanding just how important he really was.

Dorian shifted closer to him, protective. “This is madness,” he agreed in a soft murmur. “Alexius can’t have wanted this.”

“In the end, it did not matter.” Cassandra’s voice echoed with the red lyrium poisoning her body. “Come. We must continue.”

Taran shook his head, but it wasn’t in denial. “We’ll find a way to make this right,” he said. Then, eyes falling on Leliana as she slowly climbed the steps to join them: “Do you need more elfroot?”

She was beyond elfroot. “No,” Leliana said, brushing past him. To Taran’s credit, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he followed at her side, keeping his steps in time with hers—letting Leliana set the pace. She grimly clenched her jaw and forced herself to move faster, unwilling to hold up the party. It was only a matter of time before the alarm was called, and who knew whether Alexius was desperate enough—mad enough—to summon his Elder One.

There was no way out of this but through. They _had_ to complete this final mission.

Cassandra threw open the doors to the courtyard, leading the way out. Taran was looking at her, brows faintly puckered, so it was Dorian who first saw their ruined world. He made a shocked, torn noise, reaching out to grab the Herald’s arm. Taran instantly straightened, turning to him before following his gaze up up up toward—

“The breach!” Taran whispered, staring in open horror. “It’s…”

“Everywhere,” Dorian finished on a breath.

Leliana looked up, trying to take in the world the way they must be seeing it. The breach—once a relatively small tear in the sky—now consumed everything in its wake. From horizon to horizon there was nothing but churning green energy, interspaced with the occasional flicker of blue where it hadn’t yet managed to swallow the sky. Huge rocks and chunks of mountainside floated mid-air, and all around was the crackle of energy as rifts opened and closed across the wide face of Thedas, spilling demons endlessly from beyond the veil.

A rift formed just below, in the courtyard proper, as they stood there on the steps. It crackled to life, green streaks of energy hitting the ground in four points. Taran’s hand lit up in response even as he flung himself over the railing and down into the fray, already reaching for his sword.

Cassandra cursed and charged after him. Varric took up point on the deck, and Leliana moved beside him, stringing an arrow. Dorian lifted his staff and sent a bolt of dark fire at a fiend as it pulled itself from the ground; then he muttered something beneath his breath and flew down the steps to join the fray.

This battle was more difficult than the one before, the rift stronger, the demons more aggressive. Leliana sent arrow after arrow sailing down into the courtyard, effortlessly falling into the tempo of battle. At her side, Varric notched another bolt into Bianca and— _thwack!_ —skewered a demon in the throat.

He tossed her a crooked grin. “Feels good to be back at it, doesn’t it?” he said, voice rich with the reverberation of red lyrium. “Almost like we’ve actually got a nug’s prayer of making this whole crazy shit right again.”

She didn’t answer.

The second—then third—rift closed lead up through a broken-open door to the royal wing. This part of the castle had seen less decay, though red lyrium still thrust from the walls and ceiling and the air still felt heavy in her lungs. Leliana grit her teeth and soldiered on, aware that each step was sapping another precious bit of energy she would need for the final battle. She stared ahead and forced herself to go on, and on, and on, winding through the familiar-yet-not halls.

Finally, seemingly unable to help himself, Dorian broke the silence. “How much damage did Alexius’s spell do?”

Cassandra glanced over her shoulder at them, eyes flashing red; Varric shook his head.

 _Can’t you see with your own eyes?_ she was tempted to say. But perhaps there was a kernel of kindness left inside her—if not for Dorian’s sake, then for the Herald’s. “Rifts tore apart all of southern Thedas, starting here,” Leliana said. “Whether that’s his doing or the Breach, who can say?”

“What happened here?” Taran asked quietly, a few paces ahead. No one had the heart to answer him.

Dorian cleared his throat, expression reflecting a fraction of the horror they had all survived since that terrible day. “Somebody had very questionable taste,” he quipped weakly.

Taran began to turn toward him, the way he always seemed to—then stopped when green fire crackled across his fingers yet again. “Another rift,” he said, looking back toward a solid pair of double doors. He drew his blade. “Leliana, you guard the hall and make sure no one can surprise us. The rest of you, follow me.”

“Hear hear,” Varric said, Bianca already at the ready. Cassandra met Taran’s gaze and they nodded, speaking without saying a word. Then, as one, the two warriors kicked in the heavy doors. They flew open, banging off crumbling stone walls, revealing a huge hall with towering—crumbling—marble columns and an arc of green riftlight and a pitched battle already in progress.

“Now!” Taran cried, leading the charge.

Leliana remained in the doorway, pulling free her bow but not attempting to find a target. This was yet another kindness, allowing her to “guard” their way instead of wasting yet more of her dwindling strength. She hovered in the shadow and tried not to be insulted by what was ultimately the right decision—even as she flinched every time she heard a scream, fissures of terror lancing through her. What if Taran died here, in this hall? What if they once again lost their only chance of saving the world? What if—

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, counting back the unspooling terrors until she was in control of herself again. If Taran died this day, then all the world was lost. She simply had to put her faith in Andraste and the Maker and trust that now wasn’t the Herald’s time. Now wasn’t _her_ time.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Finally, she heard the familiar implosion of the rift closing. Leliana moved into the hall, taking in the scattered bodies of Venatori spellbinders and demon ichor. Dorian was draining a bottle of elfroot, blood staining his teeth a garish red when he grinned off the Herald’s worry, but Taran looked hale and whole and nearly entirely untouched. No doubt she had Cassandra and Varric—and Dorian, it seemed—to thank for that.

“This way,” Leliana said, stepping over a corpse. She walked to the huge, unfamiliar door blocking off the entrance to the throne room. It towered over them, oddly shaped for the space, with irregular deep grooves forming a pattern where a handle should have been. Leliana pressed her hand against the smooth petrified wood and gave it an experimental push—as expected, it didn’t budge.

“Magic?” Cassandra asked, meaning: _can we break the damn thing down?_

“It appears that way,” Leliana said, meaning: _no_.

Varric sighed. “Well…shit,” he said, glaring up at the door keeping them from Alexius and the end of this madness.

Dorian moved to stand next to her, fingertips brushing over the arcane symbols. Leliana stepped aside to give him room, watching through narrowed eyes as he investigated the odd markings. “Maker’s breath, where did Alexius find this? How did he even move it here?”

“Can we open it?”

“Perhaps. Though only through arcane means.” He sighed, turning away from the door with a faint shake of his head. “How desperate and paranoid must he be? To bar himself inside like this… Well.” Dorian spread his hands as if pushing away swirling dark thoughts. “No matter. His servants must have a way through. He has to eat. Let’s look around.”

Leliana began to follow, only to freeze when Taran lightly caught her elbow. She looked at him with a chilly arch of her brows, but he just shook his head and subtly flicked his gaze toward the others, waiting until they were just out of range—searching the bodies of the fallen spellbinders for some sort of clue.

“What?” she finally demanded.

Taran let go. “You need to rest,” he said. “You’re hurt, and you’re not doing yourself any favors throwing yourself into battle after battle like this.”

Leliana felt that strange mix of gratitude and fury churning her gut. She turned on him, bristling, hating how _right_ he was. “I can—” she began hotly.

His expression didn’t change, empathy and brutal practicality in those gold-brown eyes. “You aren’t doing us any favors either,” he said, and Maker, but she’d forgotten how strong he could be when there was need. It was so easy to look at him and see the young face, the sheepish grin, and blooming _warmth_ and affection of a touch-starved boy desperately trying to build a family from the ashes of loss.

But there was steel there, too.

“I will wait here,” Leliana said quietly, stepping back. Giving in. It only made sense. “I will guard the door.”

“That’s a good idea,” Taran said, trying to smile, and if she were anyone else, anywhere else, she may have smiled back. “We’ll be quick.”

She let out a slow breath, feeling the aches of recent torture; feeling a hundred years old. “Be better than quick,” she said, leaning back against the door and holding her bow ready, just in case. “Be smart.”

Leliana watched as Taran gave a nod and turned, heading off to rejoin the party. Even knowing this was the best possible option, she had to wrestle back the urge to go after him. All through the next fifteen minutes or more, as she waited, and fretted, and stewed, she kept thinking—what if he was lost to them? What if the Maker had given her this hope, only to snatch it away again?

What if, what if, what if.

Finally the sound of footsteps and the glint of broken light on bronze armor had her shoulders relaxing in sheer relief. Leliana pushed away from the door, making room as Dorian moved to begin fitting small red shards into the slots. He worked quickly, confidently, the arcane symbols lighting up with each movement.

“I believe…” he said, mostly to himself. “I just need to… There.”

With a flash, the doors swung open.

_It all happened in a blur_. That was the cliché, was it not? But for Leliana, each moment that came next unfolded in careful, deliberate origami shapes. Flashes of impressions frozen to still-life magnitude.

Taran facing Alexius: Alexius bowed, very nearly broken; Taran’s anger fading into horror and pity.

Dorian, standing by his obvious Voice’s side: torn between hatred of the man who would have killed his soulmate and love of a madman who had lost his way.

Cassandra and Varric: wreathed in the memory of red lyrium, dying by degrees. Impossible to save.

And, of course, Felix: a golem of a man, hunched over and useless as anything but a bargaining chip. As anything but an instrument for her rage. She slunk around the edge of the hall, letting Taran and Dorian keep Alexius’s attention, letting the whole melodrama play out. Felix didn’t seem to notice as her shadow crept toward him; he didn’t do more than grunt in pain when she lashed out, quick as a demon, and yanked him back by the throat.

Alexius turned with a startled cry, one hand outstretched, but Leliana already had Felix listing back against her, the edge of her blade kissing his throat. Taran and Dorian watched her with shocked eyes.

“Maker’s breath, Alexius,” Dorian said, staring between the old monster and his son, “what have you done?”

“He would have died, Dorian!” Alexius cried, as if half the world hadn’t died already. “I saved him.” His eyes never left Leliana. She edged back carefully, pressing the blade tighter when it looked like he might come toward her. Alexius froze, trembling; he looked so much older than she remembered. (She _felt_ so much older, too.) “Please,” he said, breaking in slow motion. “Please don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Hand over the amulet and we’ll let him go,” the Herald said, as if this truly were a negotiation. He’d always been too soft; it was one of the things she used to like so much about him, that innate kindness reminding her of Solona Amell.

Alexius’s eyes never left hers. “Let him go and I swear you’ll get what you want,” he promised.

The fool.

“I want the world back,” she said, and never had blood spilling over her knuckles felt more welcome, more _earned_ , than when her blade cut a new smile across Felix’s grey-tinged throat. He jerked once in her arms, breath wheezing out. The spatter of blood was like fresh rain, underscoring Alexius’s howl of rage and loss. She let Felix drop lifeless to the ground, already bracing for the burst of power that sent her tumbling back toward the far wall, head hitting marble with a solid _thwack!_

Black motes swum across her vision. She tasted copper on her tongue.

Taran cried out something and charged, and Leliana swore she heard Varric yell something about Bianca. There was a solid _thwack thwack_ of bolts hitting leather before her lungs were filled with ozone and the crackle of the rift drowned out everything else.

She pressed a hand beneath her, pushing herself up. The nausea had her reeling, however, and Leliana cursed as she pressed fingers to the back of her skull. They came away slick with blood; if this weren’t the end, that might worry her.

She no longer feared what came next.

Leliana managed to prop herself against a broken column, out of range of the fight, and dug through the pouch attached to her quiver for elfroot. There was just enough to stave off the worst of the blow, those black motes fading into undulations of grey as she greedily swallowed every last drop. The battle was going well; she could tell by the satisfied grunts Cassandra made every time her blade connected with Alexius or one of his demons. The rift gave a familiar humming vibration, and Dorian let out a cry.

Then, the implosion; the scattering of green energy; the stillness after the end.

Leliana pushed herself up to her feet, leaving a handprint smear of blood across smooth stone. She took a careful step forward, then another, stooping to grab her dropped blade and wipe Felix’s blood onto her leathers.

Dorian was kneeling by the Venatori’s body. “He wanted to die, didn’t he?” he said quietly. Taran was crouched beside him, one hand on Dorian’s shoulder, eyes on his face. The fresh devotion in that look would have worried her if Leliana hadn’t already known this timeline—her timeline—was coming to a close.

 _Ah well,_ she thought, sheathing her knife. _A problem for my counterpart to lose sleep over._

Dorian was still lost in mourning. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications… He lost Felix long ago and didn’t even notice. Oh, Alexius…”

“I know you cared for him,” Taran said quietly.

Taran stood, offering the other man a hand up. Dorian took it, eyes still locked on his fallen master, expression so much like a lost child that Leliana almost pitied him. “Once he was a man to whom I compared all others. Sad, isn’t it?”

 _Almost_ pitied him. “There is no time for this,” Leliana reminded them sharply. Cassandra and Varric were already prowling about the room as if waiting for the next attack. They understood what Dorian and the Herald could not: there was no such thing as safety. There was no such thing as time for _rest_. For _recovery_.

Dorian jerked his gaze toward her, then nodded once. He pulled away from Taran and leaned down to grab the blood-flecked amulet from around his once-mentor’s neck. “This is the same amulet he used before,” he said, mostly to himself, as he studied its winking facets. “I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathous. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift.”

She stiffened. “An _hour_?” Leliana protested. “That’s impossible! You must go now.”

As if in response to her horror, the hall began to shake. Cassandra gave a sharp cry, sword drawn again, turning. They all stared up at the ceiling in horror as bits of rock and dust scattered around them and, in the distance—drawing ever-nearer—a dragon screeched.

“The Elder One,” she breathed.

“Cassandra,” Varric said, voice tight “We have to…”

He didn’t finish; he didn’t have to finish. Cassandra nodded once sharply before turning to Leliana. “We’ll go on ahead and take out as many as we can,” she said gravely—in every sense. “Leliana, you’re the last line of defense. Give them what you’ve got.”

“Wait!” Taran said. He jerked forward, hand lifted to catch Cassandra’s arm. There was so much fresh anguish on his face, and Maker, she had forgotten how young he could be. How little he understood his own importance.

The world literally died without him; there was nothing more vital than making sure he survived this day.

“I can’t let you kill yourselves for me,” he said. “Let me fight with you. There must be another way…”

“Look at us,” Leliana snapped. “We’re already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes. Go,” she said, and Cassandra carefully pried herself free. She reached up one last time to press a hand over her heart, giving the Herald of Andraste—the last hope for their dying word—a faint bow. Then she turned on her heel and left the hall, Varric trailing in her footsteps.

Taran let out a soft breath, anguished eyes locked on the magically sealed door.

Leliana tilted her head toward Dorian. “Take him,” she said. “Guard him. Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

“But I,” Taran began, only to be hushed by some soft word spoken just below what Leliana could hear. It didn’t matter; she didn’t care whatever gentle lies Dorian told him, so long as Taran was saved. This horrible nightmare _would_ come to an end. This long night would finally be over.

She readied her bow and drew back an arrow, listening to the tempo of battle just outside the doors. There was Cassandra’s cry; there was the solid _thwack_ of crossbow bolts. There was the scream of a demon, and crumbling stone, and death, death, death.

Behind her, Dorian worked frantically to recreate the spell. In front of her, the door began to tremble beneath terrible blows. The horde would be upon them in moments.

“Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame,” Leliana murmured. She tightened her arm as the doors flung open with a resounding crash. Varric’s limp body was flung into the hall, hitting the marble floor with a sick _crunch_ and skidding to a far pillar. Dead eyes were staring, glowing red, consumed by lyrium even in his last moments.

She let the arrow fly as the demon pressed forward; it staggered back a step and howled.

“Andraste, guide me.” An arrow found its mark in a Venatori’s neck. Another skewered a gleaming eye. Leliana fought to keep her breathing even, her focus on the attack, as more and more pressed through the open doors. She spotted one spindly demon dragging Cassandra’s limp body by the ankle; the sight sent a flare of cold rage through her. “Maker, take me to your side!”

An arrow struck her and Leliana cried out, staggering back a step. Behind her, she heard a soft scuffle, followed by Dorian’s panicked, “You move and we all die!”

She let one final arrow fly, already twisting the bow around to slam it into a Venatori’s face. She fought to keep hold of the bow, but it was wrenched away; her muscles screamed in agony and hot pain bubbled up from the deep gash in her side. They were on her now, surrounding her, overwhelming her like the sea she used to swim in as a girl: cleansing waters closing over her head and her eyes lifting toward the distant prick of sunlight as she let herself sink down beneath the waves.

“The night is long,” she breathed, smelling the salt, feeling the sand between her toes; she was being lifted on claws, impaled. Blood spattered the broken floor. “And the path is dark. Steel your—” She twisted around, wrenched free, ragdoll limp limbs caught in demon claws—but she couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t feel anything but the crash of waves, the golden sunlight, the breathless hope as the rift formed up up up on the high dais, swallowing Dorian and Taran whole.

A demon howled and a dragon screamed, and all Leliana could see was Taran’s pale face seconds before he was lost to time again. Blood dribbling down her chin, knees giving out beneath her, Leliana began to smile.

 _The dawn,_ she thought nonsensically, world lost in a flare of golden fire, _the dawn, the dawn will—_


	17. Dorian

Taran seemed strange in the aftermath of their return—distant yet hyper-focused as he arrested Alexius, offered safe haven to the mages, and arranged for their peaceful integration into the Inquisition. All throughout, he held himself as if he were made of glass and one wrong move might send him shattering. It wasn’t until the hubbub had died, however, and it was just the four of them left standing together in the vestibule that Dorian finally realized what was wrong.

“It’ll take the mages a few weeks to organize and make their way to Haven,” Taran said, looking paler, somehow—more fragile—than Dorian had ever seen him. “We may as well take our time getting back.”

_He doesn’t want to look Leliana in the eyes_ , Dorian thought, fighting against the impulse to rest his hand on his Voice’s shoulder. They were rounded forward, defeated despite the fact that Taran had just won a great victory. That hurt more than he could have anticipated. _He doesn’t want to have to tell her what she sacrificed._

Cassandra bristled at the idea, so goal-oriented she missed the subtle undercurrents in Taran’s voice; in the way he held himself, as if he were struggling against some terrible burden. “The others will want to hear of this…vision…you had,” she protested, loud and strident with her determination. “Not to mention the threat to the Empress Celene. We _must_ —”

Varric cut in. “I’m with the kid,” he said. “We’ve been tearing back and forth across the countryside for weeks now. It’ll be nice to set a leisurely pace for once. Smell some flowers. Maybe help some villagers.”

“ _You_ ,” Cassandra spat, upper lip curled, “would take any excuse to be lazy.”

“That’s me,” he countered. “The laziest dwarf in Thedas. Why don’t you go on ahead and see about the horses?” Varric added to Taran. “We’ll be right behind you.” He shot Dorian a speaking look the moment Taran’s back was turned— _docile; Maker, he’s so out of it he doesn’t even care that he’s being managed_ —and jerked his head toward the Herald.

The message was clear: keep a close eye on him. He doesn’t need to be alone right now.

Varric didn’t have to tell _him_ twice.

Dorian nodded once before sweeping up the bottom of his robe and following Taran down the wide steps toward their waiting horses. A few of the spies Leliana had sent ahead were standing at the gate with reins in hand; others were visible moving along the parapets, blessedly free of red lyrium.

Dorian hurried his pace until he was a few steps behind his Voice, only just aware of Varric’s low: “ _Seeker_ , get a load of the kid’s face. He’s three seconds from breaking down; a couple extra days on the trail won’t kill us.”

Breaking down. Yes, that seemed more and more accurate with each second that passed. There was a careful tension to the way Taran moved, as if he were scrambling to hold all the pieces of himself in place. He paused at the bottom of the castle steps, face tipping up—lost as the child Dorian remembered from the Fade all those years ago. Deeply hurt and wholly alone.

Only he wasn’t alone—not anymore. If only Dorian could think of the words to tell him that.

_What do I say?_ Dorian moved beside him, fighting diverging instincts. He wanted to… He wanted to reach out. To slide his hand into Taran’s and brush his thumb over the rapid thunder of his pulse. He wanted to tug him around and wrap a soothing arm across his shoulders, pulling him close to press a kiss between his brows.

But he wanted to _run_ , too; he wanted to yank up the cowl of his stupid Venatori robe and pretend like he wasn’t seeing such naked fragility on Taran’s face, because this— _this_ —was the only hope for Thedas. This young man with more heart and bravery than sense held the whole world in his hands.

Held Dorian’s heart in his hands.

It was a terrifying thing to realize that if Taran was lost to them, Dorian wasn’t the only one who would suffer. The whole _world_ would mourn with him, and that thought was so big and so horrible that it was all he could do not to cover his eyes like a child and pretend away his fears.

“It looks so strange,” Taran said quietly, eyes still fixed on the sky.

Dorian made a questioning noise, caught between the urge to comfort and to flee, comfort and flee, unable to do either.

“The breach. It looks almost…small now. Like something we really can defeat. Right?” He turned, facing Dorian. Cassandra and Varric were still some paces back, giving them space, and Taran was _close_ —closer than Dorian had intended, and yet somehow still not close enough. He was starting to fear Taran would never be close enough; there would always be some small, hungry thing inside of him wanting more. “You saw it too. You saw what the future was like, if we fail.”

Pause. Swallow.

“If _I_ fail. So many people, Dorian. If I can’t do this, there are _so many people_ who are going to die. I-I didn’t realize that before. I didn’t think…what if I can’t do it?”

_Maker_. “Taran,” he said, frozen in place.

Taran dragged his hands over his face. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. Then, with a thin laugh, “It doesn’t help anyone for me to talk like this. I should just… I have to just…” He turned again, looking up, _small_ against the sheer breadth of the task that was required of him. A backwoods boy from the ass end of Ostwick tasked with saving all of Thedas from the bloody void; it hardly seemed fair. “It’s smaller,” Taran said again, a false strength to his tone that Dorian could easily see through. “And now that we have the mages on our side, we can make sure that…what we saw…never happens. I can do this.”

_I have to do this_ , he may as well have said, the bravado an empty shell filled with so much pain and fear.

Dorian cleared his throat again, forcing himself to reach out, to brush his fingertips along Taran’s gleaming armor. Even if his Voice couldn’t feel the caress, couldn’t take comfort from the gesture, at least it was _given_. That was a start, wasn’t it?

“Cassandra’s right,” Taran added. “We should hurry back to Haven. I need to— They’ll be expecting me to—” He shook himself out as if pushing away a particularly unpleasant dream and jerked forward, striding toward the horses with false purpose. “I have to report in.”

_Do something say something do something say something; Maker damn you don’t just stand here and watch_. “Wait!” Dorian said, jerking forward to follow. He nearly stumbled over the long ends of the Venatori robe, feeling like he was failing at every turn. Taran so obviously needed some comforting word, some reassurance, some…some… _something_ , and Dorian was left fumbling in his wake like a thrice-taken fool. Shaken himself by the unfolding realization that the man he loved could never truly be his—not when he belonged so completely to all the bloody world.

“Wait,” Dorian said again when Taran stopped to look at him, surprised. He curled his fingers around the shaft of his staff, hyperaware of the frantic race of his pulse. The way his heart ached. The…urges he felt, to fall into those bloody arms and damn the consequences. “I… Taran.”

“Yes?” Taran said. Those warm brown eyes swept Dorian’s face, as if he were searching for something.

Dorian swallowed, ignoring the way his whole body flushed in response. “If it’s all the same to you,” he managed to say, scrambling hard for that old casual insolence that used to come so easily to him, “a slower pace would be _most_ welcome.”

He blinked. “It would?” he said.

“Well.” Dorian shrugged a shoulder, feeling exposed as a raw nerve himself. What they had experienced had been a shock for them both, and he wasn’t entirely certain it was the sort that would fade into nothing with time. “It _has_ been a rough few days traipsing here or there as fast as our horses can take us. A leisurely stroll back to Haven wouldn’t be amiss after…”

He let the word hang there, unfilled. Because what more could he say? _After_. From this point on, his awareness would always be bisected into _before_ and _after_ the moment he’d been forced to come to grips with just how necessary the other half of his soul had become to the sheer survival of the _entire known world_. That sort of thing left its mark on you.

Taran was still studying him, brow puckered, eyes sweeping over his face and then down his body as if trying to take his measure. Dorian’s skin prickled in awareness at the perusal, but he held his ground, keeping his expression as neutral as possible.

He actually saw the moment Taran relented, those warm brown eyes softening even further as he came to all the wrong conclusions. “Right,” he said, “ _the spell_. I didn’t even think about that—you must be exhausted.”

Dorian _was_ worn down, true, but that hadn’t been the point. Still, he was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Dreadfully exhausted,” he agreed, leaning on his staff in a showy bid for support. He heard an almost imperceptible snort behind him as Varric and Cassandra rejoined them, but he ignored it. If Taran needed some external excuse to slow his pace—to take care of himself—then, well, Dorian would happily play the fool all day. Anything, _anything_ to help his young Voice shoulder the burden that had been so unfairly given to him. “It takes a lot out of you, you realize. Time magic. Being dreadfully dashing. Saving the day. That sort of thing.”

Cassandra grunted in annoyance, but Taran just nodded as if all that made perfect sense. It was so painfully sweet how much he seemed to _care_. “You’re right,” he said, looking between the three of them now. “If Cassandra thinks it will be okay to delay our report by a few days…?”

Cassandra held her ground until Varric elbowed her none-too-subtly in the side. She scowled down at him, but her expression instantly relaxed when she looked back toward Taran. It filled Dorian with a strange sort of pride to realize that even the hard-as-nails Seeker had a soft spot for his Voice. Even she was not immune. “It will be fine,” she said. “One of Leliana’s men will go ahead and report. We can take our time crossing the Hinterlands again.”

“Do you know what that means, Seeker?” Varric said with a crooked smile. “More rams and rebels and foul-tempered bears than you can shake a shield at.”

“I will shake you at them instead,” she threatened. “Perhaps then you’ll be of actual use.”

“Seeker! You wound me!”

“Not. Yet.”

Dorian looked away from the bickering pair with a shake of his head, attention turned back (as ever; as always) to Taran. Taran had drifted a couple of paces away at Cassandra’s agreement, eyes tracking back up to the breach. His long lashes flickered as he studied its jagged edges, as if he were committing it to memory anew. Or perhaps comparing it to the breach of that terrible future world?

  
What must it be like to realize how many people were willing to die for you? What must it be like to stand there and watch as three of your closest friends and advisors did just that?

Dorian couldn’t imagine how it felt, so he didn’t even try. Instead he stepped next to Taran, deliberately letting their shoulders jostle—drawing him back into the moment and away from painful thoughts. That was the best thing he could do for Taran now. “So. Are you ready for what’s next?” he asked, though Maker knew _Dorian_ wasn’t anywhere close to ready for any of this.

Taran glanced at him, still looking terribly worn around the edges, still fragile, still _hurt_. But his lips quirked a little at the corners, as if he couldn’t help but smile when Dorian was near. “Sure,” he said, so painfully young it almost broke his cynical heart. “Bring on the next adventure.”


	18. Varric

There was nothing quite like a lazy evening in the Hinterlands.

The night was cool but no longer fully _cold_ this far away from the Frostbacks, a large bonfire keeping the camp pleasantly toasty despite the occasional breeze. Sparks danced up toward a wide open sky, and massive trees loomed over the small scattering of tents in silent sentinel. They looked, Varric mused, like friendly giants leaning close to hear a rollicking good tale. Each rustle could be them whispering to each other: _shush shush shush._

He laughed a little at himself, kicking out his legs closer to the fire. _You’re in luck,_ he thought, and tipped his head back to watch the way their branches shivered under the weight of the last snow. _A more storied group of travelers you’re unlikely to meet_.

A dwarf, a Seeker of Truth, a Tevinter mage, and the Herald of Andraste walk into a glade: it sounded like the start of a real banger of a joke. Too bad he hadn’t figured out the punchline yet.

Varric glanced over his shoulder as a shadow passed over him. It was Taran, dressed down from his usual gleaming armor, still looking drawn despite the last three days taking it slow across winding fields and rolling dales. There was a new cut on his cheek slowly healing with the help of elfroot, and a weary set to his shoulders that Varric didn’t care for. The boyish enthusiasm that had buoyed the rest of the Inquisition’s spirits for so long appeared to have reached a low tide.

He offered a crooked smile at the kid and Taran paused just long enough to nod and smile back, but yeah, shit, it was a small, wan little thing, there and gone in a moment. Whatever he’d seen—in that bleak future Varric very much did _not_ want to hear details about _thank you very much_ —had been bad enough to leave its mark. No telling how lasting the scar would be, but he did know one thing: it was going to take more than a few days of pretty scenery to get Taran smiling again.

“Herald,” Cassandra murmured, skirting the fire on her way back from the stream. _She_ at least seemed more relaxed than usual. Her shoulders were a skosh less squared, her jaw a touch less statuesque. She’d pulled her hair down to wash it, the long end of that crowning braid a loose loop over one ear as it dried. Hell, Varric figured, give her a few more days and she might actually crack a smile; fighting bears truly suited her.

“Cassandra,” Taran said in low greeting. They passed, the Herald raising his gaze up toward the wide starry sky, darkening into shades of indigo the farther away from the breach you looked. A complicated expression crossed his face before he turned to watch her go, those tawny brows drawn together. “Cassandra,” he said again, this time calling her attention.

She turned, expectant.

“I was thinking…” He hesitated, then looked out into the darkness. Varric heard the soft fall of canvas as Dorian slipped out of his tent, but Taran didn’t appear to notice. Or, if he had, he was ignoring the other man for once. “I… I’m going to go for a walk.”

It hadn’t been what he’d wanted to say, clear as nug piss, but Cassandra nodded just as seriously as if Taran had given her some sacred order. “As you say,” she murmured before turning back to wind her way toward her own tent.

Taran watched her go, frustration visible in the tight set of his shoulders—then shook himself out. He turned on his heel, heading off into the darkness: alone and unarmed and increasingly, worryingly contained. Varric watched him go. A walk to clear his head just might do him some good—and the air was thin enough here that they wouldn’t have a problem hearing any calls for help.

But not everyone saw things the way Varric did.

Dorian made a soft noise and started after him—though whether to mother hen Taran back into the safety of the camp or to offer to watch his back, Varric couldn’t say—crossing just past where Varric had sprawled by the fire. Feigning intense interest in the bonfire, Varric reached back to snag the trailing end of the mage’s white robe, yanking him to a stuttering (and rather undignified) stop. The last thing the kid needed right now was someone crowding his space.

“Sparkler,” Varric said before Dorian could do more than sputter down at him. “Pull up a log. Share your company.”

“I would think Bianca is company enough for you,” Dorian sniffed, beringed fingers tugging at his robe; Varric simply tightened his grip and strained his neck to smile beatifically up at him. “Judging by the way you shower her—and your own marksmanship, mind—with praise.”

His smile widened. “Neither of us are much for false modesty,” Varric said. He gave another tug when Dorian’s gaze drifted back toward the shadows that had swallowed Taran just moments before. “Come on. Sit. Bullshit with me. If we’re in this long haul together, we may as well get friendly.”

“As _tempting_ as your offer may be, I’m afraid I’m—” But he couldn’t even finish the excuse, because they both knew Dorian wasn’t _busy_. None of them were; that was the whole void-taken point of being out here amongst all this…nature.

Going slow. Smelling the flowers. Giving the kid time to reorient the shape of his universe before he had to face the rest of the Inquisition with a whole passel of mage allies in tow.

“Might as well give in, Sparkler,” Varric said, giving one final tug. It was hard enough to pull the line of straps just a little cockeyed. Truth be told, he kind of preferred it that way; it made Dorian look a little less refined, a little more approachable. More real, somehow, with his huff of annoyed breath and the way he stalked like an angry cat to sit next to Varric by the fire, all piss and vinegar and none of those smooth manners in sight.

Dorian crossed his legs beneath him and came very close to crossing his arms. He couldn’t have been more obviously put out. “There,” he said. “I have pulled up a log. I am ready for your bullshit.”

Varric tipped his head back with an unselfconscious laugh. The other man was so wound up by… _something_ …that his mustache was practically bristling. “You know,” he said, letting their shoulders bump once in a friendly way, “I like you. You remind me of someone I knew back in Kirkwall.”

He let out a little huff, but there was a curl to the corner of his lips, as if he were reluctantly sinking into the camaraderie. “I’ve read excerpts of your book,” he pointed out, “and while I’m flattered, I have a hard time seeing myself in that Champion of yours. He was so…” He flicked his fingers. “ _Nice_.”

Varric grinned. “That he was. Generous, too. Self-sacrificing to an almost fanatical degree.”

Dorian snorted, even as he shifted uncomfortably. Something about that had hit close to home; Varric stored that observation away, even as he continued blithely, as if he had little more interest than in hearing himself talk. “No, you don’t remind me much of the Champion. The kid does. _Taran.”_ Dorian shifted again, dark eyes darting up toward where the Herald had gone before dropping deliberately to the fire again. Interesting. “He’s got the whole bleeding heart thing down. That’s what pulled Hawke into the center of every mess in Kirkwall. Well,” he had to add, “that and my big mouth, I guess you could argue.”

“This is all very fascinating. I am endlessly fascinated,” Dorian said, sounding anything but.

Varric just ignored him—his audience didn’t always have to be _willing_ to play its part, after all. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d told more stories about merchant princes or shipless pirates and fewer tales of an unlikely folk hero. Would he still have gotten yanked into the middle of all that shit? Would he and his Voice even now be living out their lives in Hightown, happy as you please?”

Dorian shifted again, staring fixedly into the fire. _Interesting_.

“Or would Hawke have found himself pulled into the eye of that shitstorm no matter what I did? Like the kid here.” He jerked his chin toward where Taran had gone, as if Dorian needed the confirmation. “It’s crazy to think that it won’t much matter what people like you or me or even the Seeker and the rest of the Inquisition leaders do or say—that kid’s stuck right in the center of history, whether he likes it or not. He’s got that one thing I never figured I’d believe in: destiny. And all we can do is try to give whatever help we can and hold on for dear life.”

The other man had been growing increasingly stiffer and stiffer with each word, his jaw hardening and entire body coiling tight. Something was _definitely_ going on, and it had to do with the Herald.

But _what_?

“That’s all very…poetic,” Dorian muttered, shifting as if weighing the impulse to stand.

Varric hummed absent agreement, watching the subtle shifts and ticks of his expression for the right tell. It was obvious Dorian was anxious about Taran, but what was the source? Had it sprung from visiting that bleak future and seeing what life would be like without him? That was possible, but…but no, he’d been a squirrely little shit before Redcliffe, vacillating wildly between insulting the Herald and cozying up to him.

Was it fear _of_ him? Guilt for what his countrymen were doing? Sheer cussedness? Unwanted attraction?

Dorian began to stand. “Well, this has been _charming_ , but I think I’ll go for a walk before I turn in for the— _ah!_ ” He squawked, undignified as a cat with its tail underfoot as Varric snaked a hand out faster than he could blink and yanked him back down.

That nice line of buckles was _certainly_ cockeyed now. It was enough to make Varric grin, even as Dorian _scowled_.

“I was telling you,” Varric said, “who you reminded me of.”

“You were holding me hostage just to hear yourself talk,” Dorian countered. He yanked angrily at his robe, trying to pull it to rights. The usual smooth manners were all but gone, replace by that raw, pulsing nerve Varric had been sensing just under the surface. Just out of sight: a rocky shoal for the unwary ship, and yes, _yes_ , Taran wasn’t the only party member nursing some unknown hurt.

Except Varric could trace a clear line between the kid and the fresh hell he’d just survived. It was _obvious_ what was making him so upset. The trick there was going to be figuring out a way to make him forgive himself.

Dorian was different. Dorian was slicker, more experienced, more prone to smiling as he lied. Dorian had also been acting twitchy for longer than his jaunt into the future, and Varric was tired of sitting around waiting for all the clues to fall into place. Much better to grab the man by the collar, turn him upside down (metaphorically, naturally) and try to shake the truth free.

…Maker’s beard. He was clearly getting too old for this shit if _Aveline’s_ typical methods were looking good to him.

“Well?” Dorian demanded. He was outright scowling now, bristling in place. “You’ve got my blighted attention; _talk_.”

Varric hummed a thoughtful breath, mentally thumbing over all the new and old clues, piecing them slowly together. “Fenris,” he said, watching Dorian’s face. “You remind me of _Fenris_. You know: crabby elf, Tevinter, hated magisters.” Pause. “Hated all magic, really.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, cuttingly dry. “I can certainly see the connection.”

But Varric just waved that off. “Ignore that part. The rest of us sure as shit did our best to. No, what I mean is—” What _did_ he mean? Yes, Dorian reminded him of Fenris in many ways, but it was damnably hard to put his finger on what those similarities were. Fenris could be smooth and mannered like Dorian, but he didn’t have the tendency to peacock. He could be defensive, but his response was more raw, more physical, more likely to get important bits severed.

It wasn’t the shared country of origin that was pinging Varric, or the way they spoke, and it certainly wasn’t the way they held themselves. Fenris had always been wound tighter than a Chantry brother in a bawdy house—tightly leashed and ready to explode into action at any moment, except in those rare moments Varric witnessed him, unseen, with Aidan. Dorian, by contrast, was as loose and flowing as a mountain stream: ever-changing and difficult to predict and unwilling to stand firm on anything…except in those moments Varric witnessed him, unseen, with Taran.

Varric slowly ticked his gaze toward Dorian, watching with dawning comprehension—and horror—as Dorian anxiously tugged at the front of his robe. He was clearly on edge, but it wasn’t because he was angry with Varric. That was just the easy excuse he was hiding behind.

No, Dorian had been acting strangely ever since he had found them, _especially_ when the Herald was near. And he’d been all kinds of worse over the last few days, practically shadowing the kid, going into fits when Taran wandered off alone, looming protectively as if he could somehow stand between Taran and all the shit he’d have to face, day after day, hour after hour, for the rest of his short, brilliant life.

He’d thought Dorian was acting so _off_ because he’d been thrown by seeing that strange future world. He’d figured Dorian was so protective because he’d had a front row view of the apocalypse that would apparently be theirs for the taking if Taran died before he could save all their miserable hides.

He’d figured he knew exactly what Dorian was feeling, thinking, experiencing because the rest of the Inquisition had that same sort of nervous protective instincts to one degree or the other.

But _holy fucking shitballs_ had he been wrong.

Dorian looked up, clearly sensing Varric’s increasingly horrified regard. He frowned, reaching up to touch his own face with a kind of vanity that would have had Varric splitting a side laughing if this weren’t so bloody serious. “What?” he demanded, finding nothing wrong. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. In retrospect, it was so obvious he wanted to cover his face and groan (and curse, and curse, and _curse_.) “Maker’s furry nutsack,” Varric said, staring at the Tevinter mage who watched Taran Trevelyan whenever he thought no one was looking as if he hung the moon, “he’s your bloody Voice, isn’t he?”

The electric shock on Dorian’s face—the reflexive horror—the _panic_ —was all the confirmation he needed.

Great. This was all just…great.

“Who did I piss off to have _this_ kind of bad luck?” Varric demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose as the implications of that bombshell all came rushing to him at once. He’d seen what kind of havoc this sort of thing played with good people; he didn’t want to go through that again. He didn’t want his friends to go through that. Taran was a _good kid_ , and Varric didn’t want—

He didn’t—

He—

He slowly dropped his hand, the sheer magnitude of Dorian’s not-confession sinking in as he stared at the other man. This wasn’t just some naïve apostate twisting himself up into knots over a runaway slave. (And look at how badly _that_ had gone before it all got sorted.) No, no this was a hundred thousand times _worse_.

Andraste’s tits, a Tevinter altus was Voice-bonded to the _Herald of Andraste_. There was no bigger potential shitshow in Thedas, and that was _counting_ the hole in the sky. And here he was, sitting smack dab in the middle of it all— _again_.

“Shit, Dorian,” Varric said, staring. Dorian just stared back, unusually pale. “ _Shit_. What are you going to… _Shit_.” No other word seemed to fit quite as well.

Seemingly shaken free of his horrified paralysis, Dorian’s hand fell on his arm, gripping tight. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said, voice dropped to a barely audible hiss. Dorian glanced over his shoulder toward the tents, then back out toward the yawning darkness, as if one of their party might be hovering nearby eavesdropping. He leaned even closer. “Not Cassandra, not Leliana, not Josephine, not…him.”

And _that_ had Varric straightening, scrambling up, staring at the other man with swiftly rising horror. “ _He doesn’t even know_?”

“Hush!” Dorian hissed again. This time _he_ was grabbing at _Varric’s_ coat, dragging him back down to the patch of grass with something very much like panic in his eyes. “Keep your voice— Someone might hear you.”

“I hate to break it to you, Sparkler, but they bloody well _should_.” Though, all right, that wasn’t entirely true. This kind of shitshow had to be unraveled slowly, carefully, or it was liable to set the whole world to burning.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He let Dorian pull him back down, head spinning. Half the world still protested the idea that Taran was anything more than a heretical upstart, but the _other_ half had taken to looking toward him with increasingly unsettling religious fervor. Maybe it was a good idea to keep this under wraps for a while. “Or maybe not,” he had to admit, too overwhelmed to even try to parse this whole thing out yet. “But at least _he_ should.”

Dorian was already shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said. Then, before Varric could do more than glare, “Varric, I _can’t_. I can’t do that to him. To either of us.”

“Do what?” Varric shot back. “Tell a lonely kid there’s someone at his side who gives a shit about him? Who—” It felt too awkward to say the words _loves him_ , even though he was increasingly certain it was true. It explained so much about the way Dorian looked at Taran sometimes, with something like shock and hope and fear in his eyes. Andraste’s tits, he’d been an idiot not to have put the pieces together before now. “Who has his back? Who sees him as something more than the Herald?”

But Dorian would not be swayed. “ _You_ give a shit about him,” he countered. “ _You_ have his back. _You_ see him as more than the Herald. So does Cassandra. So does that hairy Warden fellow. So do a lot of us who know him. This is different. This is…this is dangerous.”

“I’ve seen just how dangerous it is, up close and personal,” Varric reminded him. “But you know what didn’t make it any safer for anyone involved? _Lying_ about it. We have to get in front of this shit before it ends up hurting everybody.”

The kid most of all. He already had a target painted on his back—he didn’t need this kind of surprise springing up on him when he least expected it. And there was no way it wouldn’t close around him like the steel jaws of a trap, not if Dorian insisted on trying to keep it secret. It didn’t take a hard life and a wild imagination for Varric to know that shit like this? Always came out in the open at the absolute worst time. “Dorian,” Varric said, meeting his eyes. “You have to tell him.”

Dorian was already shaking his head. “This isn’t… Whatever you are imagining,” he said, “whatever little picture you have in your head about Voices and all that, this isn’t as simple as that.”

“ _Simple_?” He tilted his head back, staring up at the hole in the sky. “Andraste’s tits, Dorian. Whoever told you the saga of Aidan Hawke and Fenris was _simple_ was either lying or drunk.”

He ignored Varric’s protest. “Tevinter is…it’s different.”

Well, there was an interesting understatement.

“The way we—they—approach Voices is _different_. And Taran is…” He let out a harsh, frustrated breath, looking out toward the darkness with a complicated expression crossing his face. Like there were a thousand and one things he wanted, needed, to say, and yet not a single one could encapsulate the golden-eyed boy who willingly took the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I couldn’t bear to see him touched by that.”

“So don’t.” Varric spread his hands when Dorian shot him a glare. “I’m not being facetious here, Sparkler. Whatever shit your people pull in Tevinter—and after hearing some of Fenris’s more hair-raising tales, I’m ready to believe about anything—doesn’t have to touch the kid. Not if you don’t want it to. You’re here to make Tevinter a better place, yeah? That’s what you said?”

Dorian hesitated a long minute, almost as if sensing a trap. Finally he sighed and tipped his head back, firelight casting dancing shadows across the graceful line of his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I may hate a good deal of what it does, but I still love my homeland. I would like to make some sort of difference.”

“All right.” He spread his hands. “Who says you don’t start here? With a—” He cast a quick glance around to make sure no one had stumbled near, because whether or not he believed Dorian should keep this secret, it still was Dorian’s secret to either keep or not. “—with _your_ Voice.”

Dorian just shook his head, still staring up at the stars. There was a strange sadness settling over his features now—a pall, as if he were looking into a bleak future. “I want to believe that would make a difference,” he said. “Or at the very least, that people would be willing to look past who _the bloody Herald_ has attached himself to, but I can hear it now: the whispers. The accusations. The idiots claiming that just because he is my…you know…I have some sort of control over him. His decisions. His triumphs and failures, and how long would the Inquisition last if its figurehead was so tainted?” Dorian rolled his head to look at Varric, that stark sadness in his eyes. “How many holy assassins would be sent after the both of us? How would either of us hope to survive together, when the odds against any of us making it through each fool mission we take is so miniscule?”

“Leliana’s a damn fine spymaster,” Varric pointed out. “She’ll keep the Herald safe.”

“It only takes one bad day for that to prove itself a lie. I was raised in Tevinter, remember: my country has made an artform out of the subtle assassination.”

Varric was silent for a full minute. Then: “Tevinter is tits over ass—you know that?”

Dorian laughed—a harsh, hard thing, but there nonetheless. There were shadows beneath his eyes, Varric saw, and a slope to his shoulders he hadn’t noticed before. Dorian was usually so very good at presenting a clever façade; seeing it turn to rubble now made him like the other man more than he had in all their time together.

Even if he _was_ an idiot.

“You know,” Varric said, “if the world didn’t end when someone blew a hole in the sky, then it’s not going to end when you tell him the truth about what you mean to each other.”

“ _Tell him the truth_. Even ignoring everything else,” Dorian said, “I wouldn’t know where to start.” He pitched his voice up higher, mocking: “ _Oh, hello there. You know, funny thing: I’ve been watching you in your dreams like a right pervert since you were still in short pants._ ”

Varric shook his head. “The Fade is weird as shit,” he said, feelingly.

“ _Also,”_ Dorian went on, _“my whole family would love to see you in chains. Metaphorical, of course. We don’t bind our unum vinctum; we just go right to the source and break their spirits!_ _And one more thing, as much as I absolutely adore you and am certifiably mad over you, everyone else in this Maker-forsaken land wants the both of us—”_

He cut off with a start when Varric grabbed his arm, straightening as if a shock had run through him. He didn’t have to ask what Varric had seen—the firelight easily picked out Taran’s form as he made his way back to camp.

Taran was far enough away that he couldn’t have heard any of their conversation, but Dorian went still as a statue anyway, looking _anywhere_ but at the kid. Flat-out ignoring him, as if he hadn’t been messily spilling his guts just a few seconds ago, and it took all Varric had not to roll his eyes.

This was going to be even _worse_ than Hawke and Fenris; he could just feel it.

“Good walk?” he called to Taran as the boy grew nearer. He had a handful of elfroot and a smudge of dirt across one cheek. He didn’t look any happier than when he’d left, but there was a greater sense of peace about him. The quiet night, it seemed, had done him some good.

He paused by the fire. “It’s a nice night out,” Taran said. “But I think it’s time for bed now. We’ve got an early morning.”

“We’ve got no such thing,” Varric protested with a wide smile. Dorian _still_ wasn’t looking over, the coward. “We’re taking our time, remember?”

Taran tilted his head, firelight catching glints of gold and red and bronze in his hair. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I should still get on to bed anyway. Goodnight, Varric. Dorian.”

“G’night, kid,” Varric said. He gave Dorian a subtle kick when it looked like the mage wasn’t going to say anything.

Dorian stirred, casting him a murderous look from beneath his lashes before flicking his gaze up toward the Herald. His smile was markedly casual. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Good night.”

Taran hesitated for just a beat too long, then bobbed his head and moved away, elfroot drooping in his hand. If Varric wasn’t mistaken, his shoulders had rounded forward again and even his romantic soul couldn’t be blamed for sensing an air of wistful hurt.

Varric turned a glare on Dorian, but Dorian was too busy watching as Taran rolled back the flap of his tent and slipped inside with all the easy grace of a young warrior. He could almost swear he heard the ‘Vint _sigh_ like some sort of lovelorn fool, and Maker’s furry nutsack, he seriously couldn’t believe he was about to go through all this bullshit again.

Feeling a hundred times older than his _mumblemumble_ years, Varric tipped back his head and groaned. “You know,” he said, to no one in particular—to the whole bleeding universe itself. “I think I figured out the punchline. And it looks like this time, the joke’s on us.”


	19. Various

**KREM:**

“Inquisition troops rounding the bend,” Krem said, casually leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. His head was tipped back as if to catch the last rays of the dying sun. Anyone who didn’t look twice would think he was lost in some sort of daydream; not a single soldier paid them any mind as they passed by. “Judging by the hullabaloo, it’s either good news or the Herald.”

Bull didn’t even lift his head, one big thumb sliding along the edge of his blade. “Both,” he said, then grunted in satisfaction at its clean slice. He set the whetstone aside and sheathed the massive greatsword in a showy ripple of muscle (Krem rolled his eyes; several feet away, two of the Chantry sisters tittered and blushed), sucking the welling drops of blood from his cut thumb. He didn’t even bother glancing over. “Looks like they made it back in one piece. That’s good.”

“You sure about that?”

He meant it mostly as a jab—a reflexive attempt to rile up the boss—but Bull took the question dead serious. He turned his head and squinted across blinding snow, ignoring the last of Cullen’s men winding up their relentless, endless exercises. A few had broken away to greet the small party, buzzing with palpable excitement, and they all reminded Krem of a hive of bees circling desperately about one particularly attractive flower.

Krem cocked his head, smiling to himself. Tall, broad, brown-eyed and sweet: yeah, Taran was an attractive _something_ all right.

“No,” Bull said.

Krem glanced over with a start, an instinctive part of him wondering whether the qunari had taken up mind reading somewhere along the way. But Bull was standing tall and staring across the practice fields toward Taran and his crew. His brows were drawn down into a familiar (worrying) frown, and his fists had fallen to his hips in what the Chargers liked to jokingly call his _thinkin’ pose_.

That? Was never a good sign.

“What’s up, chief?” Krem asked, at full attention. Forget pretending to relax; there was real tension coiling through his muscles now, awareness sparking like a line of signal fires through his blood. They weren’t so firmly entrenched in the Inquisition that he felt anything close to comfortable yet. Even though he sensed that the Herald, the Ambassador, and _maybe_ the Commander were good eggs, there was something off-putting about their Spymaster. (Which, to be fair, possibly came with the job.) And there were so many people coming and going at any given time that keeping track of them all had become a full-time job.

He wasn’t ready for anything to go seriously wrong on top of all that. Not yet, at least.

“Dunno,” Bull said. He snorted at Krem’s incredulous stare, those huge shoulders pulling up into a shrug. “Sometimes it’s just a hunch. A gut feeling. And my gut’s telling me something’s not quite right.”

Krem crossed his arms again. “Your gut’s probably telling you it’s hungry,” he said. “It’s getting big enough that it’s got to be fed on the regular, yeah?”

“Aw Krem,” Bull said with a crooked smile, “now that’s just hurtful. You’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

“I’d have to have found them first,” he countered, flicking his gaze toward the ever-growing crowd hovering (buzzing, buzzing, buzzing away) about the Herald. They were nearing the main gates, bypassing the bit of wall he and Bull had been so studiously decorating for the last hour or two. Krem instinctively shifted, giving Bull the opening to half-turn toward the little procession without looking like he was _looking_. “So what do you think?”

Bull hummed beneath his breath. “I think someone needs to buy that kid a beer,” he said. “Preferably someone tall, dark, and dangerously pretty.”

Krem pushed away from the wall. “Well,” he said, rising to the bait, “I guess that’s my cue.”

He snorted and didn’t try to contradict him. “You won’t be able to get within ten feet of him for the next six hours,” Bull warned.

But there were some things even the qunari didn’t know. “Yeah?” Krem said, quirking a single brow as he backed up toward the wide-open doors. “Wanna take a bet on that?”

He didn’t give Bull a chance to reply; Krem turned on his heel with a final flashing grin and jogged to catch up with the crowd. Now that he’d gotten them square in his head as _bees_ , he couldn’t seem to hear anything but buzzing. They followed about the Herald in a thick knot; Krem had to get creative with the use of his elbows to squeeze in anywhere close, and part of _that_ was Varric finally spotting him and giving up his own spot by Taran’s right flank.

Krem dashed off a quick salute in thanks and let his arm jostle Taran’s. He was out of his armor and looking fresh-faced—and visibly anxious. Shit, Bull had been right after all. (Not that Krem had _actually_ doubted it for a moment.) “Hey, handsome,” Krem said, dropping his voice low enough to pass for a playful come-on.

Taran looked over, a little smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. On his left, that new Tevinter altus nearly tripped over his own stupidly complicated robe. _Ha_. “Hi, Krem,” Taran said. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Probably holding up the walls of the bar,” Krem said, then cocked his head toward the Singing Maiden. “Wanna go check?”

“I can’t,” Taran said, though his eyes couldn’t have more plainly been screaming _yes, yes please_. He looked…tired. _Worn_. There were violet-bruised shadows beneath his eyes and a vulnerability about him that made him look even younger than his age. It was a rare reminder that this boy—this _chosen of Andraste_ who charmed rebels and always had an ear for the outcasts and who was slowly on his way to becoming an actual friend, given enough time—was in fact _younger_ than him by a handful of years. That, if Krem wasn’t mistaken, he hadn’t actually hit his twentieth year yet. Crazy to think about that, considering how much the world was coming to depend on him.

Krem pushed all that away. No use dwelling on it now. “See, you say you can’t,” he said, offering a crooked smile, “and all I hear is _sure, Krem; lead the way_.”

“He can’t,” the too-pretty ‘Vint snapped, leaning around Taran to shoot Krem a glare. Their paths hadn’t crossed much—Dorian hadn’t lingered in Haven long enough for Krem to make it a priority—but he was pretty sure they already didn’t like each other.

No, scratch that, he was _certain_ they didn’t like each other. The ‘Vint was looking at him with a frosty sort of disregard and, well, it wasn’t exactly the first time some upper-class asshole countryman had given him that particular brand of stinkeye. Krem set his jaw and glared back. He knew who he was now; he was comfortable in his own skin. He wasn’t willing to take bullshit from people like this anymore.

“Dorian,” Taran said quietly, dropping a hand to the ‘Vint’s—Dorian’s—arm. The other man swung his gaze up to Taran’s, a complicated series of emotions flickering in those dark eyes. He was guarded enough that Krem couldn’t quite read him, but perhaps not quite as guarded as Dorian probably would have liked.

Dorian swallowed and inclined his head slightly. When he looked at Krem again, that coldness was mostly gone, but there was still a light of…what? Jealousy? Possessiveness? Indigestion? He mentally made it his top priority to crack this particular nut with Bull before Dorian proved to be a problem. “That is to say,” Dorian corrected himself, clearing his throat and sounding lighter, more relaxed…and yet no less anxious, unless Krem was missing his mark. “The Herald will have to make a full report to his advisors. A great deal happened to us these past few weeks.”

Krem didn’t miss the way Dorian stressed _us_. Neither, it seemed, did Varric. Still walking a few paces behind them, he started coughing delicately into his fist.

Whatever else was going on, Krem now knew with complete certainty that Dorian? Was _jealous_. Though whether he was jealous of the Herald’s time or attention or the power that came from being at his side, Krem couldn’t say. Did Dorian look to advance his own standing by climbing on the shoulders of the Herald? Was he using Taran? It was something an _altus_ wouldn’t think twice about doing.

Krem narrowed his eyes. He may not have known Taran terribly long, but damn it, he _liked_ the kid. He’d be damned if he let some power-hungry ‘Vint use him to further his own schemes. Not-so-subtly, Krem knocked his shoulder against Taran’s and looped a friendly arm around his shoulders, bullishly (ha!) riding out the way Dorian’s eyes narrowed into a piercing glare. _Take that, asshole._

If Taran noticed, he chose to ignore it. “Dorian’s right,” he said, not protesting the friendly gesture. If anything, he listed toward Krem, greedily drinking in the show of physical affection. Sometimes the kid reminded him of small animals that hadn’t been held enough—hungry for touch yet uncertain how to go about asking for it. “I’ve put off this report long enough. I need to talk to Leli— I mean, I need to talk to all of them.”

His gaze flicked down and Dorian made a low noise.

Something was going on, and Krem was increasingly certain Taran needed a few drinks and, more importantly, a few hours surrounded by the Chargers and their bullshit. Whatever they’d been looking to gain by taking their sweet time crossing the Hinterlands, it hadn’t been enough: Taran clearly hadn’t gotten what he needed.

“Well,” Krem said, subtly tugging Taran off-course, away from the path that would lead up to the chantry and toward the old tavern instead. “Unfortunately for you—but fortunately for me and my drinking buddies—Leliana’s out for the evening, meeting with one of her groups just north of here. She won’t be back until late tomorrow morning.”

“Oh?” Taran said, something like relief, then guilt, flashing across his face.

Krem tightened his grip, ignoring the way Dorian glared. “Yup. So it looks like your evening suddenly got freed up.”

“Well someone still needs to check in with the others,” Dorian protested, sounding suspiciously peevish. Yeah, Krem was seriously getting under his skin; Dorian’s glare kept dropping down to that casual arm around Taran’s shoulders, then away. It would have been funny if the man wasn’t such an obvious snake. “He can’t very well go off _gallivanting_ with you when there’s _work_ to be done.”

Behind them, Varric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Taran stiffened in reflexive shame, beginning to reluctantly pull away, but Krem just tightened his grip and smiled. _Fuck you_ , he tried to beam straight into Dorian’s head. _He’s a human fucking being, not your puppet._ It was a damn shame how quickly everyone around here seemed to forget that. “Well, it’s a good thing you were there with a front row seat of everything that happened over the last few weeks,” Krem said, tossing Dorian’s earlier words back at him. _Prick._ “I’m sure you can sketch out what they need to know tonight, and Taran can fill in the details tomorrow when everyone’s back at Haven.”

Dorian didn’t seem too thrilled with that idea, but Taran brightened a little—likely at the idea of avoiding for another night whatever painful confrontation had him coiled up so tightly. “Are you sure that would be okay?” he asked, twisting around to look at Varric, then Dorian.

Dorian opened his mouth. Closed it. Hesitated. The fact that he so obviously didn’t want Taran going off with Krem—and yet seemed to _want_ to shield Taran from whatever he was so obviously dreading—raised him a couple of notches in Krem’s opinion. Maybe he wasn’t _completely_ terrible after all. “I…could give them the bare bones, yes,” he said slowly.

Taran smiled; Krem smirked; Varric shook his head and moved up to snag Dorian’s sleeve, tugging him toward the chantry. “Come on, Sparkler,” he said, dry amusement threaded through each word. He added something to Dorian in a low undertone that sounded suspiciously like _made your bed, now lay in it._

Krem didn’t waste time trying to puzzle out what was going on. He’d fill Bull in on the details later and let that wily bastard spit out the answer. Instead, he led an unresisting Taran off the branching path toward the tavern. Some of their bees were still buzzing about, but they’d been split by the division of their party, some following Varric and Dorian, some heading toward the Singing Maiden. Krem trusted that Sera would be able to chase them off after a round or two. She was good at using her big mouth and brassy manners to scare away any hangers-on.

Tonight, Krem vowed, starting to chat Taran up with a bit of friendly warmth and reflexive flirtation—he really _was_ awfully pretty, with all those muscles and those warm brown eyes—only the true friends of the Herald would be allowed within ten feet of him. Whatever fresh hell Taran had been through, it was still haunting him, and it was clear from the way he sunk into Krem’s side that he _needed_ something none of them had been arsed to give him yet.

 _Well then_ , Krem thought, ushering the Herald into the golden warmth of the tavern, where Dalish, Rocky and Stitches were already lifting their tankards in greeting, _good thing he has us, then._

**FEYNRIEL:**

When Dorian was in a snit, his dreamscape reflected back the darkest shades of his mood.

…it wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Um,” Feynriel said, ducking beneath the low doorway and into the library proper. There were spikes of ice hanging in jagged edges from the domed ceiling and a fine layer of frost covering every visible surface. Dorian’s beloved books glittered beneath their frozen shells, and even the fireplace danced with twisting blue-white flames that gave off nothing but cold.

Dorian sat in his usual chair, glaring down at a book with a very telling title: _GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF HIM YOU FILTHY LOUT._ He looked two seconds away from ripping out the pages with his teeth.

“So,” Feynriel added after a short stretch of silence. “Things aren’t going so well with your Voice then, I take it?”

Dorian looked up with a _glare_ , and Feynriel rook a quick step back, both hands raised in defense. “Not that it’s any of my business!” he said. “In fact, forget I asked. Or said anything. Or even shoved myself into your problems.” He started to take slow steps back, ready to leave Dorian to whatever mood had overtaken him.

But Dorian sighed and tipped back his head, staring up at the spiky ceiling with a curious—and unusual—sort of vulnerability. “No,” he said, voice throatier than usual. “No, please, don’t allow my horrid little mood to run you off. Here.” He closed the book over his thumb and it disappeared in a puff of smoke. The crackling blue flames began to slowly bleed gold. “See? All better.”

“Um, sure,” Feynriel said. He hesitated before giving a mental shrug and moving to take his usual place, chair forming beneath him with a thought. It was chillier than usual, too, as if Dorian’s bad mood had infected everything in this corner of the Fade, including the elements firmly under Feynriel’s control. He’d stumbled across that now and again with the strongest of magic-users, and it shouldn’t have surprised him to see that Dorian’s will carried such weight here.

He tucked a loose strand of hair back and folded his legs up under him, offering his friend the closest thing he could muster to a smile. “So,” Feynriel said, valiantly ignoring the shelves of books with their telling titles, the dark moodiness of the library, the threatening spikes of ice still doggedly clinging to the ceiling. “How have you been?”

Dorian laughed.

It was still somewhat bitter and a touch too harsh, but it softened the tight lines about his eyes and loosened the iron-clad set of his shoulders. Dorian sank back into the chair, spreading his hands wide as if to say _look at me_. “I appear to be at war with myself,” Dorian said dryly, “and I can’t for the life of me figure out how to call a stalemate. My Voice,” he added, tilting his head toward Feynriel. “He’s…”

He trailed off, eyes dropping, as if carefully shuttering away the true depths of his thoughts.

Feynriel fought the urge to shake his head. If he had seen Krem die in the Fade, only to find him again by some miracle, _he_ wouldn’t be snarling and snapping and dragging his feet. Nothing—not even his own awkwardness, not even his occasionally flagging sense of self-worth—could keep him from Krem’s side. Dorian had experienced a true moment of divinity; how, _how_ was he still conflicted?

He leaned in, sharp elbows digging into bony knees, and studied Dorian’s face. “ _What_ is he, Dorian?” Feynriel asked, low but insistent. “What am I missing?”

Dorian sighed and dragged his fingers back through his hair. “He’s absolutely wonderful,” he said, defeated. “And absolutely unobtainable. And it is taking everything I have to stay here in my bed and not stomp my way across the camp to make sure that Tevinter harlot didn’t try to follow him back to his room tonight.”

The rising indignation in Dorian’s voice would have been funny if the whole situation weren’t so baffling. “Wait,” Feynriel said, confused. “There’s another ‘Vint around? Trying to seduce _your_ Voice?”

“All but,” Dorian muttered darkly. He pushed himself up, beginning to pace. Tension coiled through every line of his body, winding through him like a lightning storm. His heels clicked against dark marble and his brows knit together; even his mustache practically quivered. “It’s…I have not been entirely forthright with you,” he admitted after a few long minutes of tense silence.

Feynriel’s brows climb. “Oh, really?” he said—and only their long friendship kept his tone from going as dry as the Wastes.

Dorian waved him off as if sensing the sarcasm anyway. “Yes, yes, make fun. But the thing is…” He took a deep breath and turned to face Feynriel. “My Voice is Taran Trevelyan.” Pause. “ _The_ Taran Trevelyan.” Pause. “As in, the Herald of bloody Andraste?” Pause. “…Feynriel, please tell me you haven’t been _sleeping_ through all of this nightmare.”

“Oh, this isn’t the flat stare of someone who doesn’t know what you’re talking about,” Feynriel said. “This is me being too nice to say _no shit_ to your face. Of course your Voice is the Herald of Andraste,” he added, standing himself. Considering the topic of their conversation, pacing around like a madman was starting to have its charms. “I was there with you when Haven was destroyed; I _saw him_ as the hole was punched into the world. Only one person survived that, and it wasn’t some backwoods yokel who managed to get _really lucky_. Besides,” Feynriel added with a faint shrug at Dorian’s shocked look, “it’s you. Who else would you be bonded to _but_ the Herald?”

“If you’re saying that because of my family,” Dorian began.

Feynriel just waved him off with a laugh. “I’m saying it because you’re the most melodramatic arse I’ve ever met in my life,” he teased—and that, finally, was enough to earn a rusty laugh.

Dorian swiped a hand over his face, fingers trembling. He truly was out of sorts— _lost_ , Feynriel would have said, if Dorian were the sort of man who allowed anyone to think anything of the sort.

He opened his mouth to admit that he was nearly positive his own Voice had joined the Inquisition—Krem’s dreams were filled with half-familiar landmarks and an anxious sort of _awareness_ that made Feynriel believe the Chargers had settled in on a particularly dangerous assignment—but Dorian was already turning away and moving to the far end of the library. It melted beneath his feet, shifting, stones going rougher and walls dissolving down into a familiar high bannister. The balcony overlooked miles of roughened terrain, most of it lost to shadow. A queasy green light filtered over everything they saw, spilling from the core of the breach and pulsing like a living heartbeat: _thrum thrum thrum_ , its steady cadence making his skin crawl.

Dorian didn’t seem to have that problem. He tilted his face up toward its green light, watching it with a strange sort of softness to his expression. As if it weren’t some gibbering nightmare image. As if it weren’t the greatest threat they’d ever faced.

As if it weren’t the bloody end of the world.

His lips twisted into a small, absent smile. “You know,” he said, more or less to himself, “it’s remarkable how so dangerous a thing can be so beautiful at the same time.”

Feynriel blinked, then reluctantly squinted up at the breach. He fought to see it through a new pair of eyes, looking for any kind of beauty at all, but…but no, no, _no_ , it just made his stomach twist and his own heart begin to pound. “You have a strange idea of beauty,” he said, turning away from the sight as he wrapped his arms around his middle.

“Perhaps,” Dorian was willing to admit. “But in this case, can you really deny it? The way the light pulses. The way the center moves. The way it…calls to you, soft, like a barely remembered song.”

 _That_ had him straightening, attention zeroing in on Dorian. “Wait,” he said, “what?”

Dorian sighed and turned away from the strange vista, walls beginning to knit themselves together again. Feynriel reached out, catching one of the bricks as it began to take shape; it crumbled the moment it touched his fingers, falling to the parapet in a shower of dark sand. All around them, the walls Dorian had begun building with his mind collapsed in on themselves, spreading across the floor in a growing desert at their feet.

Dorian shot him a sour look, but Feynriel was grabbing at his arm, intent. “Dorian,” he said, “ _what did you say_?"

“Nothing to get so worked up over,” Dorian scoffed, trying to wave him off—then sighed, letting the breath out on a gust when Feynriel doggedly hung on. “Oh, _what_ is your problem?”

“The breach,” Feynriel said. Then again, when Dorian just lifted his brows. “Dorian, the _breach_. The _light_. You said it, it calls to you? Like a—”

 _Like a song_.

He tilted his head toward that awareness of burning, twisting light, and felt nothing but quaking fear. He strained to listen and heard nothing but silence. And yet, far across the Fade, his own Voice hummed like a struck chord, making everything inside him vibrate in return, and, and, and, oh _Maker_ they were the two biggest idiots in the whole bloody void.

Feynriel gave a startled laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe neither of us thought of it,” he said. “Our masters would drown themselves in shame.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Dorian demanded, voice tart…but he tilted his head when Feynriel just _looked_ at him, lips parting as he so very obviously began working it through.

All those weeks and weeks ago, the Fade had exploded into light the very moment Dorian’s Voice had been silenced, lost to him. _Found_ in the waking world, but nowhere else. They’d looked, Feynriel doing what he could to boost Dorian’s natural ability, but so far their search had proved fruitless. Taran’s presence in the Fade had been irrevocably lost the very day the breach had torn open the sky, as if he’d been swallowed whole in that moment of violence.

Which…yes. _Exactly_.

Dorian groaned. “You’re right,” he said, getting it. It was small comfort to think they probably would have figured it out earlier if the whole bloody world wasn’t threatening to end. The constant threat of death was terribly distracting. “Of course you’re right—and yes, yes, fine, they would throw themselves off the highest cliffs in horror at our idiocy. Taran wasn’t ripped from the Fade by the breach at all.”

“He _is_ the breach,” Feynriel agreed with a laugh. “Or, well, sort of. It’s of a piece, at least. That’s why you can hear it humming. He’s still…” _Calling to you._

Both of them turned to look up at that huge, bright gash across the sky. Even trying to imagine it as a piece of the Herald, Feynriel was reflexively frightened. It was horrifying to look at, like something that was never meant to be thrust into this world. And yet, looking up, Dorian’s lips were parted in a breathless sort of smile, and it had been a long, long time since he’d seen his friend so happy.

“Oh,” Dorian said, quiet. “There you are.”

Any small hope in Feynriel’s chest that he wouldn’t have to find his way _closer_ to the tear in the sky evaporated. “I’ll help you get there,” he said. “As close as possible.” As close as he dared, at least. “If he’s really in the Fade for you to find, we’ll discover him.”

“It really shouldn’t matter, now that I can see him in the real world whenever I want,” Dorian admitted softly. “But out there, because of who he is…I have to share him with bloody _everyone_.” He gave a little puff of laughter, as if ashamed of himself. “When I’d really rather be terribly selfish about it all and keep him to myself.”

“You don’t have to explain that to me,” Feynriel said, thinking of the way he felt whenever he saw Krem. Truthfully, that was a big part of why he’d delayed leaving Tevinter so long, even after realizing Krem was likely headed to Haven. Once he found him—once he could look into his eyes—once they shared space and Feynriel had to reveal himself as the utterly hopeless arse that he was—then Krem wouldn’t be uniquely _his_ the way he was in the Fade. He’d have to make a conscious choice.

…it was only right that Feynriel gave him that choice, which was why his bags were packed and he was boarding a ship within the week, but _still_. Still. It frightened him thinking of how much could change.

How much worse would it be if it was more than the Chargers demanding their piece of Krem? What if it were the entire known world?

Feynriel pushed that thought aside even as he reached out, offering his hand to Dorian. “Come on,” he said, fighting to smile against the complicated emotions filling his chest. Fear and determination and bittersweet loss and hope. Joy for his friend, shadowed with creeping vines of worry worry worry, because no matter how he teased Dorian, it was hard to escape the knowledge that the other man was striding into a sea of traps, each ready to trigger at the slightest misstep.

It was bad enough loving your Voice more than life itself. Would Feynriel have the strength to do it with all the world watching?

He didn’t think so.

But then, thank the Maker, he wasn’t the one who had to. So he simply smiled and tried his best to sound reassuring as he added, “Let’s go find that Voice of yours.”


	20. Dorian

Feynriel hesitated on the edge of Dorian’s awareness, flickering softly as if fighting to remain corporeal. He’d been visibly struggling the closer they drew to the breach, fear and awe and something very much like reverence flitting across his narrow face under the sheer weight of power bearing down on them.

At the awe-inspiring _breadth_.

Maker. He’d spent his nights since the incident fighting not to look toward the wound in the sky, but now, so close he could feel its rhythmic tug deep in his belly… It was like nothing Dorian could have imagined. A great eye opening in the vast night sky, staring down into each small and petty part of him as he rose up up up to meet it. He could feel his own pulse racing rabbit-fast in response, but hope outweighed the fear and curiosity drowned the caution. He could very nearly _hear_ Taran now, the way he used to hear him before the explosion—humming deep within his blood and calling him like the tides.

_I’m coming_ , he thought, dark robes whipping about him as he rose toward that burning green light. _Taran, sweetheart, I’m almost there._

The edges of the breach roiled and billowed like an oncoming storm, lightning skittering across the edges. He could feel the touch of a hundred thousand demon eyes, hungry against his skin, and that should have had him blanching away in terror. He was _smarter than this_. But Dorian simply set his jaw and fought against the tide of magic, as if he were swimming upstream—straining to reach that indefinable point of light both a hundred leagues and just an arms length away.

_I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming._

“I,” Feynriel choked, voice gone hazy with terror. He sounded very much like he wanted to scream. “Dorian, I can’t—”

Dorian didn’t turn to look at him; his eyes were locked on the light pouring from the heart of the breach. They were so close he felt as if he were breathing in its energy. It shot through his blood—his bones—piercing his skin and shifting _through_ as if he were made of glass. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he lifted his hands before his face, he’d be able to see that light through the tracery of veins.

“ _Dorian!_ ”

“Go,” Dorian said, taking pity on his friend. Feynriel may have been the most powerful dream-walker in ages, but he wasn’t tied to Taran Trevelyan the way Dorian was. He had nothing he was straining toward—no reason to bear the sheer maddening heft of the breach staring down into the heart of him. He had no one waiting on the other side. “I’ll be fine.”

It was a testament to how much Feynriel cared that he didn’t immediately slip away. “If you need me,” he began, voice trembling. He sounded, in that moment, like a child huddled against the dark, chased from dreams by the skittering-soft husk of demon laughter. “If you need _anything_ at all…”

Dorian risked one glance over his shoulder, surprised to see how far Feynriel had already fallen behind. He seemed little more than a speck in the distance, golden hair floating in mermaid strands about his face as he stared up at Dorian with anxious eyes. Green light chased shadows over handsome, half-elven features, turning them alien. Unknowable.

“I’ll call for you,” Dorian promised, though he already knew he never would. He wouldn’t _need_ to. The demons skittering and clawing over each other at the corners of his sight didn’t frighten him; the pulse of breach-light didn’t make him quake and quaver. _Taran was there_. There at the heart of it all, dreaming mind as bright as it ever was, and Dorian—

Dorian turned back to the roiling green light—the _eye_ —willfully flying up into its center. Feynriel forgotten, waking world forgotten, everything that had ever mattered forgotten...except Taran. It was as if parts of him were slowly being stripped away by the journey through the breach until all he had was that thin line connecting him to his voice in the darkness; his promise in the fade; his—

The world was lost in glaring white.

_Dorian_ was lost.

In.

The.

Silence.

There.

Was.

Nothing.

And then, sucking in a breath, he was jolted back into sensation, into some semblance of the world again—feeling sand beneath his fingers and the ice-cold-shock of waves crashing about his thighs. The frothing water rose past him, lapping greedily against a wet knife of shoreline before drawing back toward the sea, only to surge forward again.

He looked up, disoriented, as a gull circled overhead. It called out, cry echoing strangely in his ears. The afternoon sun was high and hot against his shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, the breach was nowhere to be found.

_That_ came to him with a start. He scrambled to his feet, wet robes slapping against skin, and stared around him. He was standing at the edge of the Waking Sea on a familiar curve of coast. The day was unusually beautiful, but he _knew_ that jagged cliffside; he _knew_ that cavern pressed like a giant’s thumbprint into the rocks. If he climbed his way up, he’d see endless rolling grassland and the crumbling Trevelyan House crouched like some lumbering beast on its back, the occasional cracked and boarded window only hinting at the true rot inside.

He’d somehow fought his way back into his Voice’s dreams…but where was Taran?

Dorian stepped away from the shoreline (waves crashing about his ankles and dragging the heavy ends of his robe back toward the sea) and absently waved his hand to change into something fresh. Only—only _nothing happened_.

He stumbled on the next step, startled, staring down at himself. His soaking wet robes were dotted with grains of sand and bits of kelp, feeling as cold and miserable as the real thing. Usually, in the Fade, a single thought could make just about anything disappear in a puff of smoke, the world shaping around his will, but now, here, nothing.

Dorian frowned, lifting his beringed hand and focusing on a single grain of sand pricked against his palm. He imagined it gone; he imagined it growing to a smooth golden orb; he willed it into smoke and water and a bloody fistful of diamonds, but nothing, _nothing_ worked. It remained stubbornly there, as if he’d somehow stumbled headfirst into the real world by mistake.

If he couldn’t feel Taran’s presence all around him, trembling like a struck chord, he might have believed that to be true.

“Well,” Dorian said, hushed. Even his voice sounded different in this Fade-not-the-Fade, as if each word were underlined by strings of light. “This is bloody well disorienting.”

But there was nothing for it but to keep going. He brushed his palm against his already-ruined robe as he began picking his way down the shoreline. Taran was a bright glow somewhere around a bend in the beach, away from the cavern where he’d witnessed his sister’s murder. Calling to him in that subtle yet familiar way Dorian had thought he’d never feel again.

And Maker, _Maker_ , he hadn’t realized how silent his dreams had been until this moment of reconnection. Even though he saw Taran every day in the flesh, there had been something vital missing, some part of him lost and hurting and—

Dorian pushed the tangle of emotion away, willingly giving himself to the moment. To the hyper-realism of this strange corner of the Fade, deep in the heart of the Breach. Each rushing wave was a soft hush; each shell caught the light, winking up at him like a shard of memory. It was all _so very immediate_ , the heat of the sun a palpable thing, that he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover he’d been teleported through time and space again.

The sensation only strengthened as he skirted the sharp bit of jutting rock and the beach opened up again. It spread wide from the high point of the inverted v created by the cliffside, scattered with dark rock and glistening pale shells. The practice blade made a soft _hum hum_ as it sped through the air, fast as a bird’s wing; Taran’s breaths dictated the rhythm of the sea. The sun shone down like a single focused light, and it should have been unnerving how the whole of the Fade strained toward his non-magical Voice as if Taran could somehow tap into its deeper power…

…and yet all Dorian could think as he stood there, watching the muscles of Taran’s back flex with each movement, was _ma aureum_. _Bese ma mortali_.

He was even brighter here than in the waking world, a burnished light seeming to cast from his skin. Bronze hair stuck to his scalp and the back of his neck, beads of sweat dripping intricate patterns down his spine as Taran lifted the wooden blade in counter, counter, strike—moving with a grace that belied his size.

Dorian began to smile, fingers curling reflexively at his sides as if he only had to reach out and touch. He took a step forward, foot scuffing against stone, sending it clattering. _Maker_ , he—

Taran whipped around at the sound, sword still held aloft—green-bathed- _steel_ now, the Fade responding instantly to Taran the way it refused to do for Dorian—brown eyes going huge as they landed on him.

As Taran _saw him_ , in a way no ordinary man should have been able to do.

“Dorian,” he said, visibly started, the word rolling like distant thunder. He could actually _feel_ the kiss of electricity against his skin—feel the sudden shock of fear and horror—feel the unnatural tightening of the air as Taran’s palm glowed and Maker, _Maker_ , this wasn’t supposed to be able to _happen_.

“I,” he croaked, fascinated and afraid all in one, because if Taran could see him now, what the _void_ did that mean? What did— He was just— There was no way they could—

_Bivenium, bivenium_. The word echoed like a curse in his mind; he could feel the horror of it settling low in his gut. No, it wasn’t possible. Something like this didn’t just happen: a sudden turn in their road, a break in their connection, a— “I…”

This couldn’t be right, this couldn’t be right, this couldn’t—he couldn’t—he had to— _Maker._

Taran took a step forward, lowering his sword, and it was as if a cord had been cut, freeing him from his horrified paralysis. _Bivenium._ Dorian squeezed his eyes shut in denial and suddenly he was hurtling back as if he had been flung off a cliff, the caw of demon laughter ringing in his ears.

He jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his heart racing so fast it _hurt_. He half expected the room to filled with green light as rifts broke over his head—half expected shades to claw their way from the ground. Just outside his window, he could see the breach shudder and buck, cracking just a tiny bit _wider_ …or was that his own terror talking?

Dorian forced himself to look away, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to breathe, feeling Taran’s eyes on him in that strange, unsettling, all-too-real place.

Taran didn’t belong there. It shouldn’t have been possible. It _wasn’t_ possible. It was—

It—

_Taran._

“Venhedis!” he gasped, flinging the blankets aside and scrambling out of bed, nearly falling. His bare feet slapped against the cold floor, but the shock of it only made his jerky movements faster. Dorian grabbed for his robe, laid carefully out for the next morning. Shock-numb fingers wrangled delicate cloth, yanked at buckles, threatened to unravel silken thread as he struggled into his clothes, heartbeat counting out the seconds in triple-time.

Taran, _Taran_. Taran had seen him ( _how, how, how, how, HOW had he done that?_ It shouldn’t have been possible; it wasn’t natural; it couldn’t be fucking _good_ if the Fade was reaching through an untrained boy, _malum._ ) And if Taran had seen Dorian wandering blithely through his dreams, he was sure to be curious—sure to want to get to the bottom of it—sure to be awake and _knocking on his door_ at any moment, and if Dorian couldn’t find a way to play it off as some strange dream…

He wasn’t ready to explain this, no matter how that meddling dwarf prodded. Not when his world was still spinning on its axis and his heart was filled with fear.

A seam ripped as he yanked the robe into place, but he hid the tear with a buckle, already moving to throw his blankets up over his bed. He usually didn’t bother making it (that had always been what elves were for), but he smoothed the sheets into the semblance of order now, even has he grew increasingly aware of time slipping away.

He heard the sound of someone running—a startled guard saying, “Herald!”

Dorian swallowed a yelp and practically threw himself at his chair, transformed into a reading nook the last time he had been here. (Which, Maker, already felt like eons ago.) He snagged his book and flipped it open to a random page as he fell back, smoothing his mustache and trying to make some sense of his tangled hair just as a sharp rap rattled the door.

Taran.

“Come in,” Dorian said with as casual a manner as he could manage—strangled and far too breathy, but close enough his Voice might not catch on. At the last moment he snapped his fingers and sent a flicker of flame toward the waiting wick; soft candlelight cast over the pages of the book. His lie was ready and waiting: _I’ve been awake reading all night; I couldn’t possibly have stumbled into your dreams; what nonsense_.

There was a beat of silence, of stillness, before the knob turned and the door creaked wide enough to show the young Herald standing at the evil ‘Vint’s doorway (that’s how the story would no doubt be told around the camp later), wearing—Maker preserve them—nothing but a loose pair of sleeping bottoms. Taran’s toes curled awkwardly in fresh snow, and a soft dusting covered his hair and oh yes very bare shoulders, as if he’d come running from dreams all the way across the Inquisition camp.

Dorian did his level best not to stare as he closed the book with a snap. “What in the void?” he said, managing to sound convincingly worried and confused and not at all like he’d been traipsing through this boy’s mind not five minutes ago. He stood, already tutting, and grabbed the blankets off his bed. Which gave the added bonus of masking his hurried attempts to make it. “If you are trying to catch your death, there are more pleasant ways.” He hurried over, ushering Taran in and sweeping the blanket around him. Taran’s eyes were wide, a little wild, and it was all Dorian could do to keep up the charade as he forced a teasing smile. “Wine, for instance. Come, sit down. Your feet must be ice.”

“I,” Taran said, looking down at his own feet as if seeing them for the first time. There was still a bit of the Fade about him, even now—a crackling energy about his fist, a dazed uncertainty in his gaze. How confused he must have been; Dorian hated himself for making it worse, even as he urged Taran to sit on the bed and grabbed a fresh pair of socks. “I…were you…?”

Taran wet his lips, watching as Dorian pushed the door closed, then crouched gracefully before him. It was a secret thrill to be able to reach out and _touch_ that forbidden skin, his fingers curling around Taran’s ankle as he urged up his frozen foot. He didn’t allow himself to linger as he slid the sock on, but his mind was busy cataloguing each sensation nonetheless.

The hollow of his anklebone. The soft crinkle of leg hair. The thrumming pulse and delicate sinew and impossible perfection of every little part of him.

“I had a dream,” Taran managed, each word perled out slowly, as if he were busy sorting through the thoughts tumbling chaotically through his head. “And I could have sworn I saw you there.”

_You weren’t supposed to_ , Dorian thought, keeping his eyes down as he let Taran’s left foot fall only to gently catch the right. _You never could before._ _What does it mean that you can now?_ Maker, but that couldn’t possibly be good. It couldn’t be _safe_ —for Taran, for Dorian, for any of them. “Oh?” he said, keeping his voice airy. “I do so hope it was a good dream.”

“No,” Taran said, then gave a little growl, reaching up to tangle his fingers in his own hair. Dorian dared a quick glance up, taking in the glow of candlelight on bronzed skin (bare, bare, bare; it was entirely unfair how gorgeously near-naked his untouchable Voice was) and the way Taran snarled his copper-brown hair. “I mean…yes. I mean… It wasn’t really a— It was just—”

Taran sucked in another breath, closing his eyes and letting his hands drop. Dorian—with nothing left to do—slowly rose, reluctantly losing the single point of contact. That damnably _comforting_ brush of skin on skin.

Taran bit his bottom lip, as if he were mourning the loss of contact too. And maybe that was why Dorian gave in to his inner demons and sat on the bed next to him. Or maybe it was that worry for him, bubbling up from deep within his gut. Or the faint flush that colored Taran’s cheeks, or the way he instinctively tipped toward him as if drawn to Dorian’s warmth, or—

There were a million reasons he wanted to be close to Taran, and a million reasons why he should continue to resist. But when their shoulders brushed and Taran ducked his head as if he wanted to be even closer, Dorian could actually feel his resistance breaking apart like ice after a long thaw.

_Look at you_ , he thought, curling his hands into tight fists on his lap to keep from reaching out. His eyes kept from dropping to Taran’s full lower lip by sheer willpower alone. _Bloody unfair is what you are_.

“My dream,” Taran murmured, clenching his own fists. “It was so _real_ , Dorian. I could have reached out and touched you.”

A shiver worked its way down his spine. “That isn’t how the Fade works,” Dorian managed. He even smiled, as if they weren’t dancing around the corners of some deeper truth. “Not for a non-mage. It was just a dream.”

“It didn’t feel like a dream.” Taran looked down at his lap, brows knitting together. His fists opened and closed, opened and closed, the sheer power of his capable hands obvious. The mark had gone quiet, only a faint scar visible—bisecting his palm like a second heart-line—but Dorian could still feel that hint of electricity in the air. It made the hairs along his arms stand up; it made his stomach pool with unexpected heat. “To be honest…it hasn’t felt that way for a long time. Not since the… Since I first came to Haven.”

Taran wet his lips, looking up so quickly that he almost caught Dorian watching him with open hunger. “Sometimes I think the explosion changed something in me,” he confessed—voice low, as if it were some kind of dirty secret. As if Taran had any idea just how frightening and terrible this all truly was. “Not just the mark, but…deeper. I…”

He hesitated, then glanced toward the windows, lowering his voice even further—tipping toward Dorian until their shoulders were pressed together and he could all but feel the puffs of Taran’s words against his skin. “I hear things, sometimes,” he confessed. “When I sleep. When I’m near a rift. Sometimes when I’m just…by myself, not doing anything. I hear things, and sometimes I swear I almost _see_ them too, like shadows of shadows out of the corner of my eye. It scared me the first few times, until I realized whatever it was didn’t mean me any harm.”

_It scared me the first few times_. Dorian dug his fingernails into his palms, struggling to hide how badly he was quaking. Maker. _It scared me the first few times_ , as if they weren’t talking about the veil and demons and an untrained, unguarded mind tossed willy-nilly into the center of it all. It was a shock and a blessing Taran hadn’t been possessed already—he was floundering unprotected in dangerous waters, and oh, oh _void_ , oh _great bloody void_ Dorian could lose him at any moment. Just… _poof_ , the thing that made Taran _Taran_ gone, subsumed by the darkness he was carrying around inside his gloriously golden mind.

Outside the window, the breach churned; inside, Taran’s hand glowed the faintest green, responding. Or was the breach responding to _him_? Was there truly any way of telling?

No no no no _no no_ _no no **no**_.

“Taran,” Dorian managed, even though all he wanted was to go gibbering out into the night. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t know what to do. His Voice was the Herald of bloody Andraste, and he was in terrible danger, and every option Dorian could imagine held its own perils. If he took Taran’s hands between his own now and confessed everything, the Inquisition might crumble. Their faith in their shining figurehead was still a fragile thing, and he wasn’t fool enough to think the armies that were gathering under their banner would all be perfectly content to accept a dirty ‘Vint whispering poison into the Maker’s Chosen’s young ear. Besides, if they decided to ignore the political calamity and bond anyway, there was no telling whether the bond would help protect Taran…or just open him up to further danger.

_Bivenium_ , a part of him whispered, like a nightmare long-forgotten. _Bivenium, bivenium, bivenium._

On the other hand, if he said nothing—if he took the comfortable coward’s way out and held his tongue—was he leaving Taran exposed to a growing threat Dorian was in no position to truly understand? Would he lose him, and by extension rob a desperate Thedas of their one shining hope, all because he was too bloody frightened to act?

His head was spinning. It hadn’t _stopped_ spinning since he’d clapped eyes on Taran, and what Dorian wouldn’t give for a few weeks of peace and quiet where he could sort through the dreadful tangle of his own heart.

But he didn’t have the luxury of time. So instead he reached out to take one of Taran’s hands in his, squeezing gently—giving comfort. “Perhaps,” Dorian said slowly, feeling his way through the unseen traps laid all around them, “if your dreams are troubling you, it would be wise to spend time with a few mages. Learn how to shield yourself as best you can, so if the whispers prove a threat…”

And when in all of magic had shadowy presences lurking just out of sight been anything but a demon?

“All right,” Taran said, trusting. Then, naturally: “Will you teach me?”

He closed his eyes. Drew in a steadying breath. Expelled it slowly. That was far too much temptation for any sane man to carry. “It may be best,” Dorian said slowly, selecting each word with care, “if you found your teacher elsewhere. Vivienne, for instance. She attended one of the south’s lovely little Circles: she must know all sorts of Chantry-sanctioned methods of shielding impressionable minds.”

The bitterness was creeping around the edges of his words, and Dorian winced before glancing up with a wry look. “In Tevinter, we do things a little…differently. You may have noticed.”

“I may have noticed,” Taran echoed with an endearing quirk of his lips. They were still holding hands, and that single point of contact was just…much, much too much. And yet Dorian was anxious for _more_. For everything. Maker, he could feel the steady pulse of Taran’s heartbeat as he squeezed his fingers; he could feel callouses against his much smoother skin. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what those sword-rough hands would feel like skimming up his flank, gripping his hips, yanking him _close_.

_Oh, you are nothing but temptation_ , Dorian thought, watching from beneath his lashes as Taran’s perfect mouth shaped words he couldn’t even be arsed to listen to. Something about Vivienne and the Circle and and and blah blah _something_. He should be paying attention.

He _was_ paying attention.

Just…not to what he was supposed to.

“…feel like a naughty child,” Taran was saying as Dorian forced himself to let go of his hand. Taran’s eyes flickered up, disappointment clear, even as the younger man tried to hide it. He cleared his throat. “I like her. And I respect her. But she’s a little, ah…intimidating. I’m not sure I’d survive a day as her student.”

Dorian forced himself to huff out a little laugh, as if his skin weren’t prickling with Taran’s sheer proximity. There was a bead of water threatening to fall from his temple, he saw—melted snow making its way across lovely skin as if the whole universe was dead set on testing him to the breaking point. “I will take your word on that,” Dorian said. His voice didn’t sound quite right. Strangled, almost. “Seeing as I’ve spent less than an hour in her presence at this point.”

“Oh.” Taran blinked, then laughed. Their shoulders brushed as he shifted, the bed ( _bed_ —Maker’s sake, why did he think sitting next to Taran on the _bed_ was a good idea?) creaking subtly. “You know, it’s funny: I forget sometimes that you haven’t been with us all that long. This is your…what? Second night sleeping in Haven?” He spread his hands wide. “Somehow it feels like I’ve known you a lot longer than I have. Like maybe I’ve known you—”

_All my life_ , he could have said. Maybe he was _going_ to say, but Dorian cut them both off before he could finish. “Yes, well, ah, Solas then.” Taran was too close. The things he was saying were too… _Too close_. And Dorian wanted to reach out and touch him so badly. His tanned skin, his rumpled hair, his parted lips, _all that skin_. There were golden freckles all across the impressive width of his shoulders, and Dorian wanted to gather them with his tongue.

_I love you so much_ , he thought, fighting to ignore the way Taran looked at him, surprised by the interruption. If he were a less selfish man, he’d make some excuse to stand and move to the window. If he were a _more_ selfish man, he’d press in for a kiss and damn the consequences. Wasn’t it just bloody dandy that he somehow managed to be paradoxically both _too good_ and _too bad_ to do anything but burn from the inside out with petty jealousy and _want_ and love and fear and—

“Dorian,” Taran said.

“Solas did keep you alive right after the, ah, explosion,” Dorian said quickly, finding a point to study that wasn’t melting snow making its lazy way down Taran’s chest. They hadn’t been alone together like this since being thrown back in time—and Maker alone knew that had been enough to keep Dorian’s wandering thoughts from getting ahead of them both. _Venhedis_. “And he has some vague hobo apostate connection to the spirits and all that…” He flicked his fingers.

“Dorian,” Taran said.

Dorian plowed ahead, wishing he had the willpower to at least stand. That had to be a bad sign, right? That he couldn’t even bring himself to step away from the edge of perfectly maddening temptation? Clearly he was going to have to station the dwarf at Taran’s side as constant chaperone. Being alone with his Voice was out of the question if he could be so easily flustered. “His methods, granted, are likely to be a little unorthodox, but considering the situation, I’d say that _unorthodox_ may be just what we—”

“ _Dorian_ ,” Taran said with a half-laugh, half-groan. He caught one of Dorian’s hands again, squeezing gently, _waiting_ until Dorian sucked in a breath and looked at him again. And oh, oh, it was like being punched in the chest with years of pure _want._ Emotions he couldn’t even begin to categorize—hidden away, kept secret, kept _safe_ for so long—unfolded like origami birds in his chest, fluttering with the wild pulse of his heart as Taran squeezed his fingers again and said, utterly unselfconscious: “If it’s all the same, I’d rather have _you_.”

He couldn’t form the words to respond to that. He could barely even breathe. _Oh, this boy_ , he thought, dazed, shaken to his core with just a few simple words. _Maker save me from this boy._

And then Taran’s eyes dropped once again to his mouth with all the subtleness of inexperience and youth…and it was all he could do to remember why he needed to keep his distance in the first place.


	21. Taran

_If it’s all the same, I’d rather have you._

The words echoed in the heavy, heady silence between them. Taran waited, breath held.

Dorian was like the tides that swirled along familiar cliffs of Trevelyan Manor. Quicksilver, beautiful, dangerous: lapping invitingly at the shore one moment and luring the unwary into deeper shoals the next.

His lashes brushed dark cheeks as he closed his eyes, almost as if _Taran_ presented just as much temptation. The feeling was indescribable, even more powerful than the mark, and Taran shifted closer on the bed until their hips brushed.

Bed. They were sitting on a _bed_ together, holding hands, and oh Maker, nothing in his sheltered nineteen years of life could have prepared him for this. For warm, _soft_ fingers threading slowly through his. For the erratic beat of his heart and the answering quick puffs of Dorian’s breath. For the feeling of being wanted desperately and yet being shoved away every time he came close.

Well, he was close now. Close enough to watch a flush of color stain Dorian’s cheeks and slowly spread like spilled wine across his face, his neck, delicate and absurdly pretty and all but begging Taran to trace its path with his tongue. Dorian was just so… So _Dorian_. There was no other word that could encapsulate the same level of frustrated, anxious _need_.

_Dorian,_ he thought, squeezing his fingers tighter, waiting not-so-patiently for Dorian to slowly slowly slowly lift his gaze to meet his. _Please, Dorian, let me in._

He wasn’t sure how to go about all this—it wasn’t exactly as if he’d had any _practice_. But he wanted—oh how he wanted—and Dorian was shifting to face him, _finally_ meeting his eyes, a liquid heat in his gaze that instantly set fire low in Taran’s belly. They both swayed forward as if compelled.

“Dorian,” he said, voice tangled and thick; husky. Dorian visibly shivered in response. “I’d like to—May I—”

_Kiss you, touch you, have you._ The overlapping desires were overwhelming in their intensity. He couldn’t find the _words_ to ask for everything he wanted.

Dorian sucked in another quiet breath, face tilted toward his in maybe-invitation. Lips parted and _slick_ , glistening in the light pouring from the breach, and, and, _fuck_ , Taran hoped the small jerk of Dorian’s chin was permission given, because he was reaching up to cup the delicate line of Dorian’s jaw in the next moment, tipping close without coherent thought and bringing their mouths together _at last at last at bloody fucking last_.

And, oh. _Maker_.

Lips against lips. Breath against breath. Utterly devastating. A kiss couldn’t possibly be this good. It couldn’t feel this right. Dorian’s mouth was so unbelievably soft, parting against his as Dorian _gasped_ in response. His pulse raced against Taran’s rough fingertips as if fed by the same electric current that was busy setting Taran alight, moan trapped in his throat, body surging closer. He tasted like nothing Taran had ever experienced, and Taran wanted nothing more than to chase each ragged breath with his tongue. His _teeth._ Heat was pooling low in his gut at this first simple brush of their mouths and his skin felt too tight, constricting, confining; it took everything he had to pull back from the kiss before it could deepen.

Even so, he didn’t go far: hand cradling Dorian’s jaw, fingertips learning the ragged race of his pulse before slipping up to brush against the close-cropped hair of his temple. Lips just a breath apart and heavy-lidded eyes locked, question and answer circling there between them in endless loop.

_I’ve never wanted anyone like this before_ , Taran thought, letting Dorian see everything exposed on his face: no secrets left between them. _I didn’t realize it was possible._

Dorian groaned quietly, squeezing his eyes tight. He reached up, elegant fingers curling around Taran’s wrist as if he meant to pull him away. _Permission denied_. But he _didn’t_ pull away; he didn’t lean back; he didn’t say a word. He simply brushed his thumb over Taran’s racing pulse again and again, each serrated breath blisteringly hot against Taran’s parted lips. Not moving back, but not pressing forward either.

It was…confounding. Even as inexperienced as he was, Taran could tell Dorian wanted to kiss him again, badly—he was practically panting, each short, harsh breath a puff of heat against his lips—but he _wasn’t_. He wouldn’t. Something kept pulling him back, just like in Taran’s dream.

(It had seemed so real, Dorian staring at him across the familiar bend of shore, eyes wide and dark, lips parted just like they were now.)

“Dorian,” Taran said, sliding his fingers up until he was gripping black hair—perhaps a shade too tight. He began to loosen his grip, but Dorian was already melting into his hold, lashes fluttering as his breaths quickened. He truly was panting now, each harsh exhalation colored with shades of _want_. His cheeks were dark and his tongue kept darting out to wet his lower lip, as if…

_As if chasing the lingering taste of him_ , and fuck, _fuck_ , he couldn’t wait for Dorian to finally make up his mind; he _had_ to be kissing him.

Taran sucked in a breath, free hand falling to Dorian’s waist. He twirled his fingers through one of those elaborate buckles and _yanked_ him closer, thrilling at the way Dorian fell against him with a choked-back moan. One of those elegant hands caught against Taran’s chest, fingers spreading wide over the bare muscle; Dorian _shivered_ , hips shifting, half-leaning over him and locked in place.

He was hard; oh Maker, Taran could feel it against his thigh, hot as a brand. He wanted to… To touch him. _There._ To reach down and cup that straining heat, rubbing the heel of his palm along the flushed head. He wanted to twist his body and rock up his own hips to show Dorian just how… How _much he wanted_. It was an elemental ache, a thrumming pulse, a—

“Taran,” Dorian murmured, eyes opening—pupils blown wide and lips parted in welcome.

Taran waited—for permission, for instruction, for _anything_ —but Dorian just wet his lower lip again and stayed silent. As if that was all he was willing to give of himself: Taran’s name, breathed like a prayer.

_Why are you holding back,_ he wanted to demand. _What aren’t you telling me?_ But he couldn’t force Dorian to be honest any more than he could force himself not to want him anyway. So instead, he relented, muscles tightening (blanket falling back to bare his flushed skin) as he drew Dorian close. “Tell me to stop,” he said, slow and serious so he could be sure Dorian heard, “and I stop. Okay?”

“Bloody void,” Dorian said on a broken laugh, but that was all he managed before Taran was pulling him closer (always, always closer) and licking hungrily into his mouth.

Dorian jolted against him at the first liquid glide of their tongues, a strangled noise caught against Taran’s lips. Taran hummed in agreement and swallowed Dorian’s moan, hands spanning down lean muscles to brace his hips. He closed his eyes, instantly overwhelmed—entire body throwing sparks as he tangled their tongues together, stroked deeper, _deeper_ , lost in a flood of sensation.

Those trim hips jerked within his grasp, but Dorian wasn’t pulling away. It was as if a flame had been set to kindling and now they were both ready to burn. He pushed closer, greedy fingers spanning Taran’s bare shoulders before stroking down his chest, mapping his skin as if memorizing the feel of him. The shape of his muscles, the tension coiled in every line of his body, the—

_Fuck_ he was hard.

Taran growled, nipping at the clever flick of Dorian’s tongue. He caught it between his teeth, sucking away the sting and riding out the unsteady buck of Dorian’s hips. That was all the encouragement he needed—surging forward, hands gripping the heady curve of Dorian’s ass, lips wrapped tight around his thrusting tongue as Dorian all but lost his mind against him; shuddering, rising up, _writhing_ and always always pushing in for _more_.

Overwhelmed in the best of ways, Taran tightened his grip on Dorian’s ass and hauled him up and over, muscles tightening as he easily lifted the older man. Dorian jolted against him, breaking the feverish kiss as he was spilled messily across the mattress, Taran rising over him—pushing between his spread thighs with a quirk of his brow. Taran slapped a hand out to brace himself against the mattress, looking down into Dorian’s flushed face. His other hand remained between them, anchored tight against Dorian’s hip and slowly slowly sliding up—never breaking eye contact, breaths coming in quickening pants as he caught Dorian’s thigh and _sloooowly_ urged it up up up around his hip.

Spreading Dorian wide open and aching beneath him.

Dorian’s cheeks were deep rose, his lips slick and his eyes blown wide and black. He sucked in an uneven breath as Taran settled his full weight on the point where their hips ground together—erection pressed _ohfuckgood_ tight against Taran’s—one leg hooking over his thighs. “What are you doing to me, you impossible boy?” he muttered in shaken Tevene, hips giving a shallow, inadvertent roll _._

Taran huffed a laugh, his own skin hot enough to catch fire. He knew he had to be flushed a cherry red, and he didn’t care— _he didn’t care_. Maker, he had Dorian spread out like a present beneath him, watching him with a scalding intensity as he hooked his other leg around Taran’s waist, pulling him _closer_. Biting his lip against something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper when their hips ground together with the movement.

It was taking everything he had to stay still, to not dive into another messy, headless kiss. To not lick deep into Dorian’s mouth and keep kissing him and kissing him, riding the deepening rhythm of their bodies as nails scored his naked back and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

_I want you so much_ , he thought, carefully shifting his weight to free a hand. Taran dragged his knuckles along the sharp line of Dorian’s jaw, loving the way the other man all but melted at the touch. He felt…fuck, _powerful_ right now. Cradled between Dorian’s thighs, feeling the mad race of his pulse, somehow the center of this incredible man’s world.

Forget the mark; _this_ was what it felt like to be chosen.

He wet his lower lip—shivering at the way Dorian followed his tongue with dark eyes. “I— I’m not doing anything you haven’t done to me first,” Taran answered, also in Tevene. Who’d have thought that he’d be so grateful for Cassius’s fanatical lessons? “And better.”

Dorian let out a long breath, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Taran’s hair. He pulled him down slowly—carefully—until their foreheads rested together; another perfect point of contact, and yet not nearly enough. He wanted more. He wanted everything. “You have no idea the…impact you have on me,” Dorian began before trailing off. He let his grip loosen, brows drawing together as if beginning to second-guess his words.

Taran leaned in before Dorian could withdraw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the point of his chin. Down his jaw. Against the thunder of his pulse and just behind his ear. Taran flicked out his tongue, catching Dorian’s earlobe between his lips—his teeth—riding out the sudden jolt of Dorian’s hips as he sucked a red mark against the tender skin.

_Mine_.

He couldn’t help the possessive response flaring deep within his chest. Within his heart. Within everything, _everything_ , every little part of him thrilling as Dorian tilted back his head and _groaned_ , those clever fingers going tighttighttight in his hair.

Whatever second (third, fourth) doubts Dorian had been harboring dissolved in the face of renewed heat. His hips were moving in tight unsubtle circles, rubbing up against Taran as his back arched in welcome. His breath came in short, harsh inhalations and every third exhale was a cry as Taran traced his way down the arc of his neck—tongue trailing, teeth scoring, lips pressing soft kisses and hard sucking bites in turn.

_I want you, I love you, I want you, I love you_. He’d barely known Dorian a fortnight and yet he was filled to bursting with emotion. It was impossible and overwhelming and _fucking wonderful_ —and if he felt a little less, he may have mistrusted it more.

But now, here, tangled hot and slick between them, there was no room for doubt. There was only room for the shift of his body and the deliberate _hard_ thrust of his hips.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Dorian cried, far, far too loud. Loud enough that anyone passing by could surely hear, surely _know_. Taran had a sudden image of Solas looking up from a book or a dream, a faint frown between his brows. Or, Maker, Adam stalking by huddled against the cold, doing a double-take as he passed Dorian’s window.

The mental image of the herbalist’s outrage was enough to have Taran laughing against Dorian’s skin, pure joy bubbling up inside him. He’d never felt this way before—he’d never even known he _could._ Dorian, still shuddering, turned his face against the pillow and laughed with him, as if Taran’s joy were infectious.

_I do_ , Taran thought, snickering against the curve of Dorian’s neck, light as a feather inside. _I do, I do love you._ He pressed that knowledge in soft kisses against warm brown skin. He whispered it with the brush of his tongue. He surrendered to it completely, unquestioningly, letting the revelation unfold piece by piece until it was all but filling him—until he was thrumming with awareness of his own love.

It didn’t matter that they’d only had a few weeks together. He _knew_.

He knew.

Slowly, Taran lifted his head to look down at the man he loved. Dorian was still flushed and laughing quietly, so beautiful it made Taran’s breath catch. Dorian was more relaxed than he’d ever seen him, boneless in his pleasure and simple joy, utterly given over to it. There was no more resistance on his face, in his gaze as he turned his head to look up at Taran with wide dark eyes—bottomless pits of black swallowing up the faintest rim of rich brown. No desire demon could have ever proved as deep of a temptation as Dorian Pavus was now: lips kiss-red and parted, fresh marks blooming against his skin, lashes sweeping low as his gaze went heavy-lidded and welcoming. One leg tightened around Taran’s waist, even as Dorian canted his hips up—dragging their cocks together in a slow, breathless, agonizing grind.

Dorian caught his lower lip between his teeth. Taran unconsciously mimicked him, staring down with words of love poised at the very tip of his tongue.

“Taran,” Dorian said, voice husky. He reached up to cup the side of Taran’s face, the warmth of his thumb counterbalanced by the cool press of his ring a second later. Hot and cold, soft and hard, all the conflicting, confusing, wonderful sides of him _right there_ beneath Taran, so welcoming, so _hopeful_ that it made his heart ache.

“Dorian,” Taran said, reaching up to curl his fingers around Dorian’s wrist, holding on even as Dorian ruffled his fingertips against the messy ends of his hair, “I—”

His words were lost, stolen, snatched away forever by the sudden call of a trumpet. Three full-throated blasts, followed by a long note. It filled the air like a halla’s call, and Taran’s heart instantly lurched into freefall.

He pulled away. “I have to go,” he said, hating the instant loss of warmth. “They will be expecting me.” He wished he could stay exactly where he was for the next age, but he had responsibilities now—people who depended on him, who for some mind-boggling reason _looked to him_ for wisdom.

(People who were older, wiser, and Maker-damn-it really should have known better, but Taran figured that reckoning was for another time.)

Dorian blinked as if slowly coming back to himself, rising up onto an elbow as he watched Taran scramble awkwardly to his feet. A single black brow rose, and that was all it took for Taran to realize just how impossibly disheveled he looked. He _debauched_ in the best kind of way, hair a haystack, bare chest and arms pebbling in the cold, perfectly respectable pajama bottoms straining against a…

_Um!_

He felt the flush crashing over his features, and Dorian had the gall to _laugh_. It was full-throated and wonderful, more than enough to make him shiver in response. It was truly unfair what Dorian could do to him. “I may not have thought this through,” Taran admitted, shifting back and forth on bare feet. He’d hardly felt the cold on his single-minded sprint through Haven, but now he couldn’t seem to ignore the absolute torture of frozen stone against the balls of his feet. There was actual _frost_ climbing up the far wall, and, Andraste’s blood, but he wanted to dive back into that warm and welcoming bed more than he’d ever wanted anything in his _life._

… _of course_ , Taran thought, feeling lightheaded as Dorian pushed himself up, the collar of his robe pulled down to reveal a tempting swath of bare shoulder, _most of that’s probably the company I’d be keeping._

“I assume all that hullabaloo is something important?” Dorian asked. He shifted to the edge of the bed, near enough Taran that he could actually feel his pulse leap. It unfair what this man could do to him; the casual, almost indolent wave of his hand nearly had Taran dropping to his knees to press open-mouthed kisses along his, ahem, well, anyway. It almost had him doing _something._

He cleared his throat and carefully backed up, urging his blood to cool. ‘Maker’s Chosen’ or not, Taran was relatively sure this wasn’t what Mother Giselle meant when she said she looked forward to witnessing his excitement for the cause.  “It’s, ah, yes. That was the signal for a large group incoming. Allies,” Taran added quickly, taking another instinctive step back when Dorian stood. “There would have been another two blasts if was an enemy force. Almost probably a lot more yelling.”

Dorian chuffed a quiet laugh, reaching up to tug his robe straight, then push his fingers through his mussed hair. It was almost like magic the way the silky strands fell back into place, and Taran sighed and shoved his own unruly mop back, feeling like a hopeless rube—again, like always.

“Uh, do you have something I could wear back to my room?” Taran asked, watching the elegant transformation with part jealousy and part… He wasn’t sure how to categorize the emotion. Disappointment at the sight of _his_ work disappearing? Relief that Dorian was letting them sink back into something a good deal safer and more familiar? He had a _lot_ to think about, and it was so bloody hard to think of anything when Dorian was near, watching him from beneath his lashes as he said something about…sleeve length and material and something something something.

Lips were moving; a bruise was blooming low at the column of his throat; Taran was young and desperately horny. It was all a lot to take in.

“—if no one looks too closely,” Dorian finished, slipping past Taran to reach for his cloak. Their shoulders brushed as he passed, and Taran’s breath caught. In the silence, he could hear the subtle way _Dorian’s_ breath caught too, and it felt so bloody good to know he wasn’t in this all alone. Dorian was floundering next to him, as turned around and confused and, yes, _desperately yearning_ as he was. There was no mistaking the smolder in his eyes, even as Dorian kept a careful arm’s length between them, cloak outheld.

Some demon of temptation briefly overwhelming sense, Taran let their fingers brush together as he took the cloak. He watched the way Dorian’s gaze flicked up, the smolder brightening, those lips parting. The indrawn breath was felt as much as heard, and _Maker_ but he wanted to push the other man back against the cold stone wall and—

Another horn blew, shattering the shimmering haze taking over Taran’s thoughts again.

He shook himself out, gratified when Dorian had to do the same. The air was so charged between them that he swore he was no longer cold despite the lines of frost spiderwebbing across the floor. “Thank you,” Taran said, voice husky. He pulled back to put a safe distance between them again, all too aware of how easy it would be to lose himself. The last few minutes was like that dream again: bizarre and impossible and yet all too real.

Dorian had kissed him. Dorian had pulled him close. Dorian _wanted_ him just as badly as he wanted Dorian. And right now none of that should have been the first thing on his mind.

He was really the worst sort of pseudo-religious figure. If Andraste _had_ chosen him, clearly she had a devilish sense of humor and timing.

“So, are you going to answer?” Dorian asked. He leaned back against a crate and crossed his arms over his chest, watching with some amusement as Taran fumbled with the complicated buckles of his cloak. Damn thing seemed to be made of some slippery material that was bound and determined to slip through his fingers. “Or are you planning on leaving me in suspense?”

“I’m sorry,” Taran said, yanking at what seemed like a truly wasteful excess of cloth. “I’m pretty sure I was too busy watching your mouth and thinking about fornication to actually hear a word you were saying.”

Dorian barked a laugh, straightening from his indolent lean. “You know,” he said dryly. “You never fail to surprise me.”

Taran looked up from the fifth unnecessary buckle. “I don’t know why,” he said. “There’s nothing surprising about me. I’m really pretty ordinary.”

“Taran,” Dorian said—and the soft, _melting_ way he said Taran’s name carried a depth of meaning, of emotion, that had a shiver working its way down his spine, “I can promise you that you are anything but ordinary. Now, hold still,” he added, clicking his tongue and moving close. Dorian batted Taran’s hands away and reached for the line of buckles, making quick work of the utter hopeless mess Taran had made of his cloak. “You’re ruining the lines.”

“Thank you,” Taran whispered, meaning so much more than the cloak. This man may have only been at his side for a few weeks, but he felt Dorian’s presence in his blood, in his bones. In the very _essence_ of who he was, tangled up in the burn of the mark and his lonely seaside home and distant memories of his sister’s haunted eyes.

Dorian was a part of him now—there’d be no shaking him free, even if he wanted to…and there were no words that could come close to capturing how Taran felt about that. About him. Desire, curiosity, affection, even blooming love: none of them felt deep enough to hold all of this.

Dorian must have sensed a fraction of what he was thinking; his ears went red and he cleared his throat, hands suddenly going clumsy as he gave the borrowed cloak one final tug. He stepped away, eyes unable to meet Taran’s—and yes, that rosy glow was spreading across his cheeks, too. “There,” he said, voice suspiciously throaty. “You’re perfect.”

Taran might have argued that, but there was a certain sort of weight to those words too, as if Dorian were saying far more. So instead he just coughed into his fist to clear the bur in his own throat and said, “All right, well. I guess I’d better go…Herald.”

“Wait,” Dorian laughed as Taran stepped back toward the door, long ends of the beautiful robe swirling at his feet. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh,” Taran said, then paused. Cocked his head. “Which question?”

It was so wonderful to see Dorian grinning like that, all flushed and happy and _fond_. Taran didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of it. “The question I asked when you were busy staring at…my mouth, was it? Thinking unholy thoughts?”

“Oh!” Taran grinned. “Sorry, could you repeat the question, then? I promise not to look any lower than your eyes.”

Dorian gave a soft tsk. “I see how it is, then. Well, then. If I must repeat myself, I…” Somewhere in the distance, what sounded suspiciously like an incredibly grouchy Cullen called for the Herald of Andraste. Dorian’s smile faded at once.

_Damn._

“Dorian?” Taran prompted.

For a long beat, he could have sworn Dorian wasn’t going to answer. Then: “I said,” Dorian finished, slower and far more cautious, “that we should likely talk, and asked when you might next be free.” He tilted his head, glancing at him, then away, as if battling renewed doubts. A faint frown was starting to draw his brows together again, and Taran could all but see Dorian closing off. “That is…if you wish.”

“I wish,” Taran promised at once, taking a step forward. “I really, really wish.” He couldn’t miss the sound of raised voices, Haven coming alive despite the late hour. It must have been the mages; damn it, Enchanter Fiona had the _worst_ timing—this was not going to be wrapped up quickly or easily. “Once we’ve closed the breach,” he had to add. “We’ll talk then. Okay?”

Dorian kept his eyes down, frown still there. But he nodded despite the obvious slow withdrawal—the quicksilver tide of his affections turning again. Damn damn damn. “Very well,” he murmured. Then, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes: “Now, off with you,” he said, shooing Taran away, toward the waiting night full of endless responsibilities. “Go get decent before you shock your true believers.”

“Once we’ve closed the breach,” Taran said again, as if the repetition could make it so. Who knew when he’d be able to find the chink in Dorian’s armor again. He stepped out into the night, borrowed cloak swirling around him, green light streaming down from the hole in the sky. He found it in himself to smile, as if his head weren’t tumbling with its own doubts and worries and endless, frustrated hope. “Well. Good night, Dorian.”

“Good night, Taran,” Dorian said. He wet his lips, gaze flicking toward a guard hurrying past, steel plate boots crunching against fresh snow. “ _Herald_.”

Then, without another word, he closed the door between them, leaving Taran alone and uncertain in the lazily falling snow.


	22. Varric

_Well shit, Hawke_ , Varric wrote, doing his best to ignore the steady drip drip drip of water on ancient stone, _I hate to say it, but the world’s pretty much gone to the void. Sky’s tearing itself open, red lyrium’s showing up where it’s got no business being, and everything’s resting on the shoulders of a single Marcher boy younger than I’m pretty sure either of us has ever been. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so scared._

He paused, letting the quill flick back and forth beneath his chin as he studied the slanting script. The whole letter was filled to the brim with similarly grim observations— _end of the world_ thoughts. So much for Varric Tethras’ patented smart-assery: his secret letters to Hawke were getting dourer and dourer by the day. _‘Course_ , he added with forced cheer, _he’s also got a loyal dwarf biographer tagging along in his wake, so I’m sure this shit’ll end up just fine._

“Right,” he muttered with a rusty laugh. “Because I’ve never seen the best laid plans go tits-up before.”

Varric dipped the nib of his quill into the inkpot, using the brief pause to scratch at his jaw (damn; needed a shave) and listen to the howling going on just up the dungeon stairs. The whole mountainside was practically crawling with rebel mages—the Inquisition’s new partners, thanks to some quick talking from Taran—tension coiling higher and higher as the whole lot of them readied for…whatever it was the inner circle had been locked inside that war room for hours now ironing out. Varric figured if Cassandra had her way, he’d be the last to know, as usual.

Well, joke was on her: this time, he didn’t give a good damn about the hair-raising details. He already knew everything he wanted to. Taran was going to lead an army of mages to zap the hole in the sky, Varric was going to stick anything that crawled out in the meantime with crossbow bolts, and the whole thing would be over in time for a round of cards. Deal. Done.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, doing his level best to ignore the muffled shouts. It hadn’t taken a full hour before he’d fled the safety of his usual perch only to be driven from one safe haven (ha!) to another. The tavern, the stockrooms, the stable, even the apothecary’s lab—every single nook and cranny of the old temple compound was overrun by mages. Finally he’d been forced to extreme measures, gathering his portable writing desk and dragging everything down to the one place he could be sure of privacy.

The bloody dungeons were cold and damp and damn dreary, but at least here a dwarf could write morose letters to his best friend in peace.

“Shit, Hawke,” Varric sighed, taking up his quill again and beginning to write. _To tell you the truth, it’s starting to really feel like it’s do-or-die, and of course everything’s falling apart in the most spectacular way possible. Learned something about the kid that’s going to change everything if it gets out._ If they survived whatever came next, but he wasn’t going to turn this letter into a _goodbye_ no matter how tempted he might be. _And it’s the kind of secret that, from what I witnessed with you lot, always gets out. I could really use your help here, Hawke. You and Broody may just be the only people I know who could be trusted to get us out of this bloody nightmare—_

He gave a low snarl and dragged his quill across those last few lines in jagged slashes, blotting them out. No. _No_. No, absolutely not: no matter how desperately they needed advice on this whole crazy Voice thing, he was _not_ going to ask Hawke to wade back into the fray. He’d been through too much already—and besides, Fenris would (rightfully) eviscerate him for getting Aidan embroiled in this kind of mess.

 _Whatever you do, stay safe_ , he wrote instead. Last he’d heard, the two of them were somewhere up around Weisshaupt—laying low from the prying eyes of all-too-interested Seekers, digging into some Grey Warden mystery (connected with all that hoopla about the Wardens disappearing? Shit, knowing Hawke, probably), and hopefully getting a little rest out of the bloody spotlight. _This time, Hawke, it isn’t your fight_. _And I’ll be damned if I see you get dragged down into the muck. I’m not willing to lose you again._

Varric tossed his quill aside with a disgusted sigh. He was obviously too bloody morose to be trusted tonight; better to burn the letter and start over from scratch. There was no telling how much time they had before they took on the breach, but surely not even Cassandra would refuse to give him a few minutes to dash off a hasty: _off to save the day; keep each other safe, and if I never see you again, you were the closest I ever came to a real family._

He moaned and tipped his head back to stare up at the dark, jagged stone ceiling. Maybe if he got _drunk_ he’d roll his way through moody and back into something tolerable again?

“You sound like a dwarf with a lot on his mind.”

The unwelcome voice wasn’t exactly the balm his bad mood needed. Varric narrowed his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling now as Dorian picked his way across the uneven flagstones.

“Gotta say, Sparkler,” Varric muttered, “you’re probably the last person I expected. I can’t help but wonder how you knew where to find me.” He’d paid good gold to some young recruit to guard the dungeon door against unwelcome visitors. (And considering his mood, nerves jangling hard enough to give him the bloody shakes, _unwelcome visitors_ meant anyone with a pulse.)

Dorian pushed back a crate and took a seat, careful to keep the ends of his robe from trailing in dankly gathered puddles. Flickering torchlight caught in the surprising tangle of his normally immaculately styled hair. “Oh, I have my ways,” he said, setting a bottle and two glasses onto the table. Varric reached out to snatch the letter before curious eyes could take anything in; he folded it up and shoved it deep into one of the pouches at his side to be destroyed later. “Besides, Sera’s already chased anyone with sense from the smithy, Solas is barricaded in his room, and Vivienne has commandeered Ta—ah, the Inquisitor’s room. There’s nowhere left to hide on this whole bloody mountain.”

Varric didn’t miss the stumble. Andraste’s tits, could Dorian be any more obvious? “I’d ask why you were so determined to find me,” he said, reaching out to take one of the glasses Dorian filled. “But I’m afraid you’ll tell me.”

Dorian just waved that off with an airy gesture. “I have no ulterior motive,” he lied through his teeth. He leaned back, one leg crossing the other, and took a sip of the wine as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Varric had been in a lot of games of Wicked Grace in his life. He’d sat across from good players and bad—canny bastards who knew how to play the long game and impatient louts who came in swinging whether their cards spelled victory or not. There was an art to bullshitting; a subtlety. Usually he would have said Dorian Pavus exceled at that sort of deceit.

Seemed like the world was set on proving him wrong on a whole host of levels lately.

“All right,” Varric said, eyeing him, “what’s going on with the kid?”

The mage arched a single brow as if to say _what? No! how could you possibly think…_ But he didn’t bother maintaining the paper-thin pretense for long. Dorian sighed at Varric’s level look and visibly deflated, shoulders rounding forward and eyes dropping in shame.

Well…shit.

“It is possible,” Dorian said as he toyed with the edge of his wine glass, “that I may have made a bit of a tactical error.”

“Tactical error,” Varric repeated. He set his own wine glass aside; the last thing he needed was something in his hands if he got the itch to _throw_.

Dorian hummed and swirled the wine in his glass, eyes on the sloshing liquid. Now that Varric was looking— _really_ looking—the other man looked like shit. His hair was a mess, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and a light stubble darkened his jaw. It was as if he’d rolled out of bed at some ungodly hour in the morning and hadn’t bothered with his usual level of perfection before stepping out of doors.

This was really, _really_ bad.

“What did you do?” Varric asked, voice gone utterly flat.

He flushed, color staining his cheeks and ears before he abruptly pushed his wineglass back onto the table. Fine red sloshed, spilling over his fingers and the cuff of his sleeve, and _oh shit_ the world really was ending, because Dorian barely even flicked the growing stain a glance. “I went to see him in the Fade,” he confessed.

And that…

That was…

…actually, that didn’t sound all that bad. “Okay,” Varric said slowly. “You’re going to have to explain to the dwarf why that’s got your nuts twisted up in a spiral. I thought stalking each other through your dreams was all part of the whole…” No point actually saying the word _Voice_. Not when there was any slight chance of being overheard. “…thing.”

Dorian groaned and covered his face with his hands, digging the meat of his palms against his eyes. “No; that is, _yes_ , though what a charming way to put it. But see, he hasn’t exactly been in the Fade since the whole, well.” Dorian looked up, brows lifting significantly. “ _Event_. But a good friend of mine, Feynriel, was able to help me find—”

“Wait,” Varric said, stopping him. He knew that name. “Feynriel? Scrawny half-elf kid? More awkward than Aveline gone a’courting and some kind of fancy dream whiz? That Feynriel?”

“I’m sure he would be _charmed_ by the description,” Dorian said dryly. “I suppose you met him when the Champion saved his life?”

Funny how the world could be so big, yet end up so very small at the same time. “Climbed into the kid’s dreams to help shake him free, yeah,” he said. “Weirdest shit I ever saw. Well,” he had to admit, “until lately.”

Until there were giant holes in the sky and demons pouring through tears in the veil and human boys turned Maker’s chosen turned religious leader turned…Varric didn’t quite know yet. The early coal of faith burned uncomfortable and almost embarrassing in his chest; he’d never thought of himself as much of an acolyte. “So, Feynriel helped you find who you were looking for,” he said. “I’m still not hearing how this is different from how things usually run.”

Dorian rubbed at his jaw, brows drawn together as if he were only now realizing he hadn’t shaved himself baby-smooth this morning. If Varric didn’t have a sense things were about to take a turn toward the worse, it might’ve been a real hoot to pass over a mirror and let him take in the full effect. “Even ignoring how I found…him…no, it isn’t so very unusual. Except I didn’t just see him in the Fade.” Dorian let out an explosive breath, grabbing for his wine glass again and taking a deep sip. His voice was grim when he added, “He saw me _back._ ”

Varric tilted his head.

Paused.

 _Paused_.

“So,” he drawled, slowly leaning in and squinting up at Dorian. “I take it that’s not…?”

“ _Fastevas_!” Dorian growled, slamming the cup down again. “Remind me never to pour my heart out to a bloody _dwarf_!”

Varric lifted his hands palm-out. “Hey, it’s not my fault all this weird Fade shit just blends together for me. So he saw you gawking at him like a creeper. How’s that different from how things are supposed to run?”

“A mage can see his _unum_ —his _Voice_ ,” Dorian corrected himself sharply, “in the Fade when he dreams. Yes, fine, but that is because the mage is aware of the Fade. We enter it the way others do not. To a Voice, any potential awareness of the visits are swallowed by dreams. Only another mage can sense you in their dreams, and that’s… That is…”

He sputtered into speaking silence.

“Bad,” Varric finished. “Judging by your expression, I’m going to take a guess that it’s bad.”

Dorian raked his fingers through his hair, twisting the ends. The reason he looked so disheveled? Maybe. Either that or he’d only just rolled right out of that nebulous dream world Varric would give a great deal never to have to fuck with again. “It is…frankly catastrophic,” he said, voice gone flat. “ _Bivenium_ —a mage-mage pairing—is vanishingly rare. Certainly none have ever been permitted to _survive_.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds tragic. But you-know-who isn’t a mage.” No matter what he could do with that glowing green hand of his.

“No,” Dorian agreed. “He’s not.” He paused. “Or at least, he wasn’t. But he _was_ at the center of a terrifyingly powerful spell, and it _did_ change him on an elemental level. And he _does_ have an undeniable connection to the Fade now…”

Which, following the logic of what Dorian was saying, meant that whether he was born that way or not, Taran Trevelyan—hopeful savior of the whole bloody Maker-taken world—was something very like a mage. Like a…what was it? _Bivenium?_ The way Dorian said the word reminded Varric of how he felt about red lyrium.

This, this was, this was _not good_.

Varric swore quietly, creatively—thoroughly hating his life.

“I panicked when he saw me,” Dorian added, spreading his hands as if in agreement. As if he were saying in that one elegant gesture: _yes, yes, we are all very fucked._ “Popped awake at once. Funny thing, he came racing to my room not ten minutes later, wide-eyed confused and looking for answers.”

Well, at least _something_ good was coming out of all of this mess. “So the kid knows now,” Varric said, relieved that that ticking bomb at least had been taken care of. “Silver lining. The three of us can put our heads together and try to come up with a way to…”

Dorian cleared his throat. Flushed. Looked away.

Varric narrowed his eyes. “So the kid _doesn’t_ know now,” he corrected. “So you didn’t even bother to tell him.”

“It is all very complicated,” Dorian said.

“Sitting on your bloody thumbs doesn’t make it _less_ complicated,” he said. Suddenly he wished he were back in Kirkwall watching Hawke and Anders and Fenris all circling around each other (with Carver in a distant, grumbly orbit). That may have been a slow-motion disaster, but at least it felt reasonably contained. This…he couldn’t see how this went anywhere good for the whole of bloody Thedas. “Maker’s beard, Dorian. We’re about to go marching into void knows what. Don’t you figure _now_ is the time to tell him, rather than actually waiting for the Inquisition to come crumbling around our ears first?”

Dorian shifted in his seat, visibly ashamed. Funny—if anyone had asked Varric just a week ago, he would have said that was impossible: Dorian Pavus knew no shame. Worse than that though, he looked _guilty._ “It is possibly…a little worse than simply holding my tongue at this point,” Dorian admitted. Quiet, like maybe it would all be easier to confess that way. Like he had some dirty little secret he’d rather not spill, and yet was nearly desperate to share.

Hm.

He sat back and looked Dorian up and down, up and down, carefully taking him in this time. The flushed cheeks. The disheveled hair. The averted gaze. The confession: _He came racing to my room not ten minutes later._

Varric groaned, loud and long, and grabbed the bottle of wine by its neck. Forget glasses; he was fast reaching the point where he needed to chug the whole thing in one go. “I don’t want to hear any more,” he said. “No details. No confessions. No new ulcers. You are officially on your own.”

“You said yourself you’re his bloody biographer,” Dorian pointed out, crossing his arms. It was a purely defensive gesture, the color high on his cheeks because, yeah, he _knew_ he’d done wrong. There was keeping something as huge as _oh hey you’re my soulmate_ from the kid, and then there was rolling around and getting frisky without bothering to share that one big honking world-changing detail. “Isn’t it your job to hear my tortured confessions? Get all the dirt you can?”

“Despite what Rivaini always claimed, I never much went for peddling smut.”

Dorian arched a brow. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I have _read_ the Tale of the Champion, you realize.”

“Oh,” Varric said, dwarf enough not to blush. _Busted._ “Well, fine, but that was an isolated case.”

“Cassandra is remarkably free with her library if you know the right way to ask.”

There was no winning this. “All right, so I peddle smut,” Varric said, exasperated. “That doesn’t mean I want to hear _any_ details about you and the kid doing…” He paused, something occurring to him. “Wait. Wait, wait, you didn’t actually have sex with the Herald, did you?”

“Oh _now_ you want details,” Dorian said waspishly, but he quieted at whatever he read on Varric’s face, brows pinching together and hands folding, as if he were fighting to keep himself still. “No,” he admitted. “Though it  may have been a near thing.”

Maker save him from reckless, idiot mages. “Right,” Varric said, “so, you _do_ plan on telling him before that _near thing_ becomes an _absolute inevitability_ , right?” he demanded. “And you _do_ plan on giving him plenty of time to digest that information, and work his way through the options, and maybe—oh here’s a thought—discuss the ramifications of a bond with the advisors?”

Dorian shifted in his seat. “We didn’t almost _bond_ ,” he said, voice going a little strangled over the word as if he were wrestling down a whole host of conflicting emotions associated with the idea: joy and horror and fear and longing and _Andraste save them all_. “We almost had _sex._ The two are quite distinct.”

“No, they’re not,” Varric said.

“…yes,” Dorian replied. “They are.”

“No,” Varric said, because dwarf or not, he’d had too much of a front row seat to the epic crazy that was Aidan Hawke and Fenris to not know these sorts of things. “They’re not. I wouldn’t call myself an expert on the matter, but from everything I learned, that kind of, ah, intimacy is a pretty sure path to a bond.” At Dorian’s horrified look, he had to add, “So I take it that’s not how it’s done in Tevinter?”

Dorian stood, restless, his fingers snarling through his hair again. He didn’t even seem to notice the way his robe was dragging through the brackish puddles, which was all the proof Varric needed that shit? Was really bad. “ _No_ ,” he breathed, sounding equal parts horrified and curious—the scholar in him, Varric supposed. “No, not at all. A mage bind himself to his _unum vinctum_ via a series of complicated rituals that draw on both the magic-user and his source to…”

He huffed out a sharp breath and turned on his heel, pacing. “Blood magic,” Dorian ended.

Well, of course. Varric had no idea why he was surprised. “Charming country you’ve got,” he said. “Real keeper.”

“I never tried to claim some of our practices aren’t a problem,” Dorian snapped, visibly on edge. Each strike of his heel rang out in the darkness, seemingly echoed by growing unease in the crowd of mages milling above their heads. If Varric were a more paranoid man, he’d assume the two were related—but no. They’d _know_ if someone had managed to overhear: Leliana would already have eviscerated them both. “And I never, _never_ intend to take Ta—to take _him_ —as an _unum vinctum_. I would never do that to him.”

“Hey,” Varric said, reaching out to snatch Dorian’s sleeve as he sailed by. He gave it a sharp tug, pulling the other man to a stop—facing him. Dorian was practically bristling with a thousand and one unnamed emotions, but clear in his eyes was the horror of that thought. “I know. I never thought it for a second.”

 _You love the kid_ , he could have said, but he didn’t have to. It was so obvious in the coiled lines of tension in Dorian’s body. In the sheer horror at both the thought of taking him as _unum vinctum_ …and the possibility that he may have accidentally bonded him the gold old-fashioned Ferelden way instead, without Taran’s knowledge or approval.

“Come on,” he added, giving another tug. “Sit down. Drink some wine. We’ll figure this shit out.”

To Varric’s surprise, Dorian actually listened. He sighed and moved to drop back onto the crate, shoulders hunched forward and brows knit, looking all kinds of lost and anxious. He took the newly-filled glass Varric shoved into his hands and nearly drained it in one swallow before pushing it back onto the table.

The only sound was the drip drip drip of water and the muffled roar of the rebel mages milling about above them.

“It’s strange,” Dorian admitted after a long stretch of silence. “Growing up, you did hear whispers about the barbaric way the rest of the world did things. Romantic nonsense about gazing into eyes and sharing soul-deep kisses and other…rather repulsive tales.”

“Repulsive?” Varric echoed, brows lifting.

Dorian gave a humorless laugh. “If you’d met my father and Lucia, you would understand.” His expression subtly shifted at his own words, going searching, almost sad. He waved away whatever bittersweet memory had put that look there after just a moment, however. “I always figured those overly romantic tales were meant to be titillating,” Dorian confessed. “We _all_ did. Are you sure that’s really how it… _works_ here?”

“The mage asked the dwarf,” Varric said. He spread his hands at Dorian’s waspish look. “I know what I witnessed and nothing more. Of course, there are several hundred mages milling about outside who could probably answer any of your questions—”

“ _No_ ,” Dorian said, horrified.

“—but that would be the world’s shittiest idea, considering. So.” He paused, then blew out a sharp puff of breath, weighing his options. Dorian clearly needed someone who understood how Voices worked outside the Tevinter Imperium. Someone who could have some useful insight as he fumbled along this path with Taran— _while_ trying to figure out what to do about this whole potential _bivenium_ thing.

There was Vivienne, of course…but no, Madame de Fer clearly had her own agenda. Besides, what could a devoted Circle mage be expected to know? Solas was a good bet, but, well, something about him was mighty off-putting. Varric wasn’t sure he was willing to trust a secret this big to the strange apostate. Which meant…

“Shit,” he sighed, reaching into his pocket to brush his fingers across the letter. There really was only one person Varric knew he could trust with this sort of thing. And considering everything Hawke and Fenris had been through together, he couldn’t imagine anyone having _more_ useful tips for handling the damned confusing world of Voices.

He’d just have to take his lumps when Fenris inevitably eviscerated him for dragging Hawke back into the center of this mess.

“If Cassandra doesn’t kill me first,” Varric muttered beneath his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, blinking out of his own deep thoughts. “What was that?”

Varric waved it away. Above their heads, he could just make out the pealing bells beginning to chime. Not a warning of attack; an announcement. Had the inner circle finally made a decision about when and how to tackle the breach? “I’ll explain later,” he promised, hopping off his own crate. He quickly packed up his writing desk, snagging it and the bottle (no sense letting good wine go to waste) before jerking his head toward the door. “Come on, Sparkler,” Varric said. “We can fix your mess of a love life later. Right now, it looks like we’ve got a whole bloody world to save.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA Dorian is in desperate need of Sex Ed.
> 
> I should note that sex is not necessary to form a bond. There are asexual, aromantic, etc. bonded pairs all through the world. For sexual pairs, however, physical intimacy can very easily lead to a bond...which is something Dorian wouldn't have known. As Dorian said, they do things quite differently in Tevinter, and romantic feelings for an unum vinctum are NOT encouraged.


	23. Cassandra

The world was holding its breath.

Or maybe that’s just how it felt because _she_ could hardly breathe. Cassandra couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so anxious before battle. Not even facing dragons gave her this sick swooping in her gut as she stared up at the breach, watching the way it twisted and turned midair. It bathed the ruins of the old church with sickly green light, casting everyone—everything—in an otherworldly glow.

“Well,” Taran said quietly from just a few paces behind her. “I guess this is it.”

She curled her hands into fists at her sides. “Yes,” she murmured. “This is it.”

“It’s funny,” he added as he moved to stand by her side—shoulder-to-shoulder, as the equal she had no doubts he had become. “The last time we stood here, you still considered me your prisoner.” Taran tipped his head toward hers, offering a crooked smile.

Despite the roiling in her gut—despite the sheer _weight_ of all those eyes staring expectantly down on them—Cassandra had to chuckle. “And are you so certain I do not still consider you my prisoner?” she teased. “It seems to me you are still by my side, surrounded by a powerful force.”

“If you’ve playing a long game on me, Seeker, then you’re more nefarious than Varric.” Taran smiled back, a shadow of her own nerves on his face. He looked…tired. Worn.

But then, Cassandra supposed, that was no real surprise—they’d all been running full-tilt ever since the rebel mages appeared, planning for this moment. For one final victory. Still, she couldn’t help but ask, “Are you ready for this?”

Taran looked away, face lifting up up up toward the heart of the breach. His muscles were tight, tension coiled through every line of his body, but there was a determined air to the set of his jaw. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “I’m ready for this,” he said quietly as Solas moved to rejoin them—returning from his inspection of the swarm of mages lining the path. “I’m ready for it to be _over_.”

“By the Maker’s will,” Cassandra said, dropping her hand to the hilt of her sword. She began to turn to her soldiers.

“Your mark,” Solas suddenly said. He was turned toward Taran, a frown between his brows; Cassandra whipped around just in time to see Taran’s hand flare with that same green light. It broke across the face of his palm, gleaming like a spell waiting to be cast—brighter, she thought, than it had been in a very long time. “Ah,” Solas continued as if reading some hidden emotion on the Herald’s face. “Does it hurt?”

Cassandra frowned. “It has not hurt him before; why should it start now?”

She had a sense that the two of them exchanged a look, but it was there and gone so fast she wasn’t able to call them on it. Well. So be it, then. Even if the mark _did_ bring Taran some measure of pain, they were nearing the end of this, weren’t they? Either the combined power of the rebel mages funneled through Taran allowed him to close the breach or…

 _Or what_ , that insidious voice in the back of her thoughts whispered. _There is no plan b here._

“I’m fine,” Taran assured both of them. He curled his fingers into a glowing fist and offered a nearly-convincing smile. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s finish this.”

She wanted to protest almost as much as she wanted to take his assurances at face value. In the end, Cassandra bowed her head in agreement and stepped back, allowing Taran to move forward alone, toward the breach. Dorian, she noticed, was standing just off to the side and very nearly vibrating with some unable emotion. He kept stepping forward as if preparing to move to Taran’s side, and Varric—standing by the mage with his crossbow cocked—kept snagging his sleeve and dragging him back. Bull was stationed on the other side of the open space, Sera nocking an arrow just past his shoulder. Vivienne, Blackwall, Cullen, Leliana—they were all there, ready and waiting for whatever came next.

 _Let’s finish this_. For better or worse, good or ill, success or death, Cassandra had to agree with the Herald. This time of fear and darkness had gone on long enough.

“Mages!” she called, turning to face the anxious line of them. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the old promenades, staves in position.

Solas moved by her side, lifting his own staff to catch their attention. “Focus past the Herald,” he called, voice lifting naturally to fill the room. “Let his will draw from you.”

A hum filled the air—low at first, like a distant echo, but growing and growing with each second that passed. The staves began to light with a dim glow that gradually brightened, casting wild shadows on downturned faces. Taran’s foosteps sounded loud as a drumbeat as he moved slowly toward the breach, and Cassandra turned with her sword in hand, tipped forward on the very edge of battle.

Ready to fight any demon that tried to break through.

He seemed so alone standing there at the storm’s apex. The ends of his leather-and-mail coat shifted and swayed, then began to flap about his thighs as that strange humming intensified. A cold wind knifed through the broken stone, and the breach twisted, crackled, _responded_.

 _This is it_ , Cassandra thought, gripping her sword so tight her fingers ached. Taran thrust his hand up, bronze hair whipping about his face, fingers splayed wide as green fire erupted from his palm. _This is the end, one way or another._

Lightning sparked from Taran’s fingers as he took a step forward, then immediately two back as if he had been _shoved_. There was a sharp cry from where Dorian and Varric stood, and Cassandra jolted forward.

“Wait!” Solas hissed, grabbing for her elbow. His staff was still lifted, keeping the mages at the ready.

Taran lowered his head, hand outstretched, and pushed forward another step. Another. It was as if he was fighting against a strong gale, each step dearly won. His shoulders were hunched forward and he started to curl in on himself as if in agony, but he kept going—light poured from his fingertips, bleeding into the breach. Or was the breach bleeding into him? Maker, she couldn’t tell anymore.

Step after step after visibly agonizing step.

“We are killing him,” Cassandra murmured with growing horror, and Solas, damn him, didn’t contradict her. Instead he tightened his grip, keeping her back as the Herald struggled to move forward—power flowing from him, into him, making him the literal heart of the maelstrom as the breach all but twisted and screamed above them.

Then, suddenly, Solas brought his staff down hard against the ground. A half-breath later, a hundred staves struck stone as one, and sheer _power_ filled the room in a flash of brilliant green-and-white.

Cassandra flung up a hand to shield her eyes as the entire world exploded into light. She could see nothing but blinding _white_ painted against the backs of her lids, a dark shape imprinted there, standing strong despite everything. Taran, Maker, _Taran_ was at the core of this, this, this _madness_. Power flowing around her like an undertow, threatening to drag her under. She sucked in an unsteady breath and tried to force herself to open her eyes, but it _burned_ : the dark corona of Taran’s shape outlined against the blistering void was the last, the only, thing she could see.

And then with a crack of thunder, the light _exploded_ outward again—throwing her back, back, through the air as weightless as if she hadn’t been head to toe in steel plate. Cassandra sucked in a breath, instinctively curling to avoid a blow to the head seconds before she slammed into stone. The reverberation had her juddering, skidding, tumbling wildly over rock and rubble. She heard a hundred cries as mages fell around her, their spells snuffing out as one.

The air went still.

Silent.

In the absence of light, there was nothing.

Blinking against the afterburn, Cassandra turned her head. Solas lay not far away, staff gripped in loose fingers, one arm flung over his eyes. Her sword—where was her sword? Where was—

 _Taran_.

She sucked in a second, harsh breath and forced herself to focus past the ringing in her ears. She shoved herself up onto her elbows before scrambling to her feet, a fine dust (pulverized stone stirred by the explosion) falling around her. Cassandra took a step and nearly went down again, dizzy and disoriented. There were small fires flickering in forgotten corners—soft groans growing louder as the dazed mages began to come to themselves. And at the heart of the detonation…

 _Please,_ she prayed, turning toward where the Herald had been. _Please, please be all right._

A soldier, swaying on his feet, staggered into her way. Cassandra pushed past, feeling her heart begin to lurch and race. Across the way, Dorian was scrambling gracelessly up, a look of stark terror on his face. The ground beneath their feet crackled and snapped, the stone a charred pit with a slumped figure in its center—kneeling beneath the scar (healed; _healed_ ; the breach had been healed, but oh Maker, what of its healer?) and horrifyingly motionless.

And then, as if sensing their fear, Taran lifted his head—and _smiled_. It was weak, his cheeks chalk-pale, his eyes bloodshot from strain, but the familiar expression sent relief crashing through Cassandra. She reached his side seconds before Dorian, her own hand trembling as she thrust it forward.

Taran reached out with his good hand (the one bearing the still-glowing mark curled protectively against his chest) and let her pull him to his feet. He swayed there, almost falling before Dorian gave a faintly unhinged laugh and slid close, taking the other man’s weight.

“Look at you,” Dorian scolded quietly, one arm braced across Taran’s back, the other hovering as if he wanted to press his fingers against the strong thud of his heart. Like he needed tangible proof that Taran had survived intact. Maker take her, but Cassandra could _relate_. “Covered in dust and dirt like some vagabond. What _would_ people say?”

“Did I do it?” Taran asked, twisting his head to peer up at the scar. All around them, people were climbing to their feet, murmuring in relief—then talking excitedly over each other—then beginning to cheer. Here and there pockets of celebration broke out, and Cassandra felt herself grin wide enough it felt like her face might crack in two. “Is it closed?”

“You did it,” Cassandra said, and very nearly laughed like a girl. “It is over.”

The cheers rose and rose and rose around them, filling the old temple. Listing against Dorian’s side, fingers curled tight around the glowing light pouring from his fist, Taran gave a shaky smile. “Oh,” he said, and reached up to brush his hair back—his fingers left a smudge of dirt across his forehead. “That’s good.”

“That’s good, he says,” Dorian tsked, reaching up as if to wipe the smudge away. He stopped midway, then covered with a broad gesture any fool could see beyond. “As if he didn’t bloody well just save us all.”

“That does, I think, remain to be seen.” Solas stepped past Cassandra, leaning in a bit to peer at the Herald’s face. None of them missed the way his eyes dropped down to the curled, glowing fist.

Varric—just behind Dorian—snorted. “Listen to that,” he said, settling Bianca back into her harness. His smile was wide and careful as the cheers echoing through the mountainside. “A regular optimist. You know what this calls for, Seeker?”

She crossed her arms, willing to play along. Taran was beginning to straighten, no longer leaning quite so heavily on Dorian—almost as if growing self-conscious of all those hundreds of eyes on him as mages and templars and soldiers and scouts alike hugged and cried and yelled up at the scarred heavens as loud as they could. “And what,” she said as icily as she could manage beneath the weight of her own giddy joy, “does this call for?”

The grin twisted into a lopsided smirk. “A victory like this? Shit, it calls for a _party_.”

“A celebration!” Bull’s voice boomed over them. The rest of the inner circle was closing in, forming ranks around Taran. Almost as if they were creating a wall between him and the increasingly chaotic crowd. “Krem, order the boys to crack open some barrels of rotgut. We’re going to get shitfaced tonight.”

Taran gave a soft laugh. “A party?” he said, glancing toward Cassandra. He raised a single brow in question.

And, well, standing beneath the newly healed sky, surrounded by cheers and cries and the ever-growing chaos of sheer relief, what could she do but agree?

All of Haven was alight.

Bonfires had been lit across Cullen’s training yard, spitting sparks into the night sky. Music soared high above the peals of laughter and stomping feet as Inquisition forces danced—drunk enough, _happy_ enough to be listing here and there with face-eating grins.

There was food and wine aplenty; Josephine had managed a miracle, opening crates Cassandra hadn’t even realized they’d _had_. The valley echoed with the sounds of their merriment, and everywhere she looked there was another grateful soldier, another jubilant scout.

 _We survived_ , their eyes seemed to say, filled with almost manic light. _The Herald saved us after all_.

Cassandra pushed past the chantry doors and scanned the grounds before glancing up toward the skyline. Taran sometimes took to the roofs whenever he needed time to regroup away from the pressure of…of _everything_. Something told her he might have fled up there tonight to get away from all those fervent gratitude. He would—

_There._

She gave a faint shake of her head and peeled to the right, dodging around a drunken soldier slurring his way through one of Maryden’s songs. The hut was the farthest back from the fires, turning the nightfall a deep blue contrasted with those distant strands of gold. It was also chilly, and Cassandra glanced up just in time for a snowflake to land on her cheek. She brushed it away, boots crunching in snow as she wended her way to the pile of crates that would be her ladder up to the rooftops.

A dark shape stepped away from the wall as she neared—threatening enough that she impulsively reached for her sword. But it was only Bull, his big arms crossed over his chest. “Seeker,” he said quietly in greeting.

Cassandra lifted her brows. “Am I granted passage or should I turn back before there’s a scene?”

“Aw, now, don’t be like that,” he said with an easy grin. “The boss is just looking to clear his head. I’m doing what I can to make sure he’s got the room for it.”

Taran’s voice drifted down from above. “It’s okay, Bull,” he said. “Cassandra’s always welcome.”

The Bull tilted his head, those massive horns casting strange shapes across the snow. “You heard the boss,” he said. “Alley-oop.”

He made a cradle with his hands as if to hoist her up, but Cassandra side-stepped him and began to climb the crates. She had to push her sword back so it didn’t tangle up around her legs—and fine, yes, maybe it would have been quicker and a bit more graceful to take the Bull up on his offer, but within just a few minutes she was stomping up onto the lip of the roof, high enough to see deep into the valley where Inquisition bonfires glowed like distant coals.

Taran was sitting on the far edge of the roof, another dark shape beside him. She took a step forward and Dorian half-turned to look at her. He was more polished than he’d seemed before, some of that exhausted worry filed away and his usual glossy exterior back in full force. Still, she couldn’t help but think she spotted cracks along the surface of that calm as he cocked his head and waited for her to cross to them.

 _Something is going on here_ , she thought, noting the way Dorian subtly shifted away from Taran’s side, putting an inch or two more room between them. _Interesting._

“Cassandra,” Taran said in greeting, smiling warm enough that she had to smile back. “Beautiful night.”

“I do not wish to intrude,” she said, standing there awkwardly.

Taran swept the space next to him clear of snow. “You couldn’t intrude. Did you hear anything from Solas?” he added as she moved to sit next to him. “Does he have an update about the breach?”

“Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm,” she said. Thank the Maker there would be no bad news tonight. “The breach is sealed. We’ve reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain, but this was a victory.”

“I tried to tell him,” Dorian agreed easily. He leaned back on his hands, face tipped up toward the sky. Snowflakes fell slowly, gently around them, catching in dark hair like a crown of stars. “But will he listen to me? Of course not.”

Taran laughed and lightly bumped his shoulder against Dorian’s. “I listened,” he protested. “I’m just…seeking a second opinion.”

“Bah!” Dorian shot Cassandra a glance, brows arching, as if to say _can you believe this boy?_

She simply shook her head. Whatever mild flirtation was forming here seemed harmless enough. Still, she was compelled to warn him: “Word of your heroism has spread.”

Translation: _you are the Herald of Andraste. You saved us all. The world has its eyes on you._

Taran chuffed a laugh, trying to shrug it off. “Don’t they know I fell into this? Almost literally.”

“Perhaps you’re too close to judge,” she countered. At his quick look she pressed, “We needed you. We still do.” There’d be no rest for any of them, but Taran least of all. He’d climbed aboard a pedestal the moment he stepped forward to close the breach and save them all. Everything in his life would be bisected between the moment before and after he moved from man to idol: he had to understand that.

And yet…what harm was there, really, in allowing the boy one more night of being human?

She sighed and looked out across the mountainside, watching distant shadows shift and move between pockets of moonlight. In the darkness, it was so easy to trick the eyes into believing the mountains themselves were moving—marching, as if the trees had taken up arms. “We’ve yet to discover how the breach came to be, and that is only the most conspicuous of our troubles. Strange days, and more to come.”

“Strange days,” Taran echoed.

“Seeker,” Dorian began, but Cassandra leaned forward, lifting a silencing hand. “Hush,” she said, and squinted her eyes against the trick of shadows and lights. Of course the mountainside wasn’t in flux, but… But it _did_ seem as if there truly was movement. Darker shapes streaming down from the high passes like a slow-moving avalanche, and was it a trick of the valley or was that the muffled thud of marching feet?

“Taran,” she began, climbing to her feet.

In that moment, a blazing arrow arced into the air, streaking across the sky. It was followed by a second, then a third: the signal for an invading force? By the _Maker_.

“What—” Taran began, startled. He scrambled up to his feet as the warning bells began to toll, cutting through the sounds of merriment. All across Haven, musicians lowered their instruments and dancers lurched still, turning their heads toward the gates where the solid _thud thud thud_ of a distant-but-closing army echoed like a racing heart—no longer hidden beneath the sound of their merriment, but growing, growing, _growing_.

Cullen raced out of the temple, sword already drawn. He grabbed a passing soldier and the two shared a handful of words before he pushed past and raised his sword high over his head. “Forces approaching!” the Commander called, his voice carrying far and wide. His words were picked up by others and carried aloft, the sibilant hiss an of whispers an undercurrent to his clear, bold cry: “To arms!”

“What the…” Cassandra began, drawing her own sword. Then, “We must get to the gates!”

“Boss!” Bull had rounded the small house to stand just beneath them, big arms lifted. “Jump down.”

Dorian scrambled up, grabbing the dragging ends of his robe. “Are we really—” he began, but Taran was already throwing himself off the edge of the high roof, tumbling down into Bull’s waiting arms. Bull caught the Herald easily, swinging him to his feet before turning back to Cassandra and Dorian with a questioning look. All across Haven, people were running, panicking, as the dark shadows of the mountain burst into light: a hundred thousand torches lit as the element of surprise was lost.

And above, circling, roaring, a—

— _dragon?_

“By the Maker!” Cassandra gasped. She didn’t allow herself to think, dropping into Bull’s waiting arms with all the trust of long soldiers-at-arms. She should have known better than to assume they were safe. She should have known the world wasn’t done throwing troubles in their wake.

She only hoped they survived the night so she could repent her folly at leisure.


	24. Dorian

It seemed impossible that this was happening—here, now, after everything they had already been through. And yet at the same time, it was _so bloody typical_ that he wanted to scream. Dorian cursed as he stumbled after Taran and the others, fumbling his staff free. It was only blind luck that he had the damned thing on him this time of night; if he’d been able to bring himself to leave Taran’s side even once since the closing of the breach, he wouldn’t have.

Maker, and what would he have done then?

 _It doesn’t matter, you bloody fool_ , he told himself fiercely, weaving his way through the streaming crowd of panicked revelers. The bells were clanging and half-drunk men were scrambling for their swords. Fire all but swallowed the mountainside; it was like watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion, each newly revealed piece more horrifying than the last.

A dragon’s scream split the night. A bloody fucking _dragon_.

“There!” Cassandra called, nearly knocking one of Leliana’s scouts to the ground as she shoved their way clear to the gate—like the prow of a particularly stubborn ship slicing effortlessly through dark seas. She pointed, and Dorian just made out a heavy furred ruff above crimson fabric. Cullen turned as if sensing them, expression grim. Next to him stood a frightened-looking Josephine and an equally grim Leliana.

Whatever was happening—whoever had chosen this night to attack the fledgling Inquisition—it was bad. It was very, very bad.

They all moved to greet the Herald. “What’s the report?” Taran demanded as they hurried to his advisors. He looked past them toward the gate, as if he could see through its thick wood to the vanguard beyond.

Cassandra was at his side in an instant, expression pinched. “Cullen?” she said.

“One watchguard reporting,” he said, looking between the two of them. He barely flickered a glance toward Dorian and the Bull, hovering just behind Taran at either shoulder like a Ferelden’s loyal mabari. “It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

Josephine shook her head, snow catching in dark lashes. “Under what banner?” she asked.

“None,” Cullen said, grim.

She turned back to him, brows lifted. “ _None?_ ”

“Wait,” Taran said. The word was quiet, but it carried a queer weight to it—thrumming with power. Dorian turned to stare at him—they _all_ did—as he brushed past Leliana and stepped toward the gate. He tilted his head, staring at it as if looking through glass. One hand began to lift slowly, green light curling about his fingers.

“Uh, boss?” Bull said, shifting in visible discomfort.

Dorian turned a glower on him. “ _Hush_ ,” he hissed, only to suck in a sharp breath when the big gate suddenly bowed inward— _toward_ Taran _._ “Taran,” he yelped, stumbling forward a step as the gate bulged against its iron bracings. There was a flash of light, followed by a short pop like blackpowder.

“What the _void_ ,” Cassandra began, but Taran simply shook his head and reached out to place his hand over the worn wood as the door shuddered one final time, then went still.

For a moment—for a breath—everything seemed so very quiet. Then a reedy voice called from the other side: “I can’t come in unless you open!”

“It’s a trap,” the Bull advised, but Taran was already fumbling for the latch. Cullen shared a look with Cassandra, and it was a credit to how much they’d come to trust their Herald that they didn’t hesitate before joining him, helping to lift the heavy wooden bar and throw the iron bracings. The big doors creaked open, revealing a half-dozen bodies scattered across the snow, faces twisted in near-comical expressions of surprise. A final soldier—a final _Templar_ , and what the bloody fuck was this all about?—staggered toward them drunkenly.

One step, two, blood spattering behind him in a gory trail before he collapsed to the side with a groan of metal…leaving a strange apparition in his wake.

The boy was thin as a scarecrow and nearly as gangly, one bare fist curled around the bloody hilt of his dagger. A huge-brimmed hat covered all but the pale point of his chin, lank blond hair catching in the snow-flecked breeze. He lifted his face as Taran and Cullen moved forward, and Dorian caught a flash of violet shadows and big, sunken eyes as the boy looked up and then away. “I’m Cole,” he said. There was a dagger in his other fist, also dripping blood. _Venhedis_ , had this boy dispatched _all_ the men fallen here? “I came to warn you. To help.”

“You came to help?” Taran echoed, sheathing his sword. Dorian had to swallow a squawk of protest; Taran was far too quick to trust newcomers—the shiftier, it seemed, the better. And yet there was something _more_ to the way he was studying Cole. There’d been something _more_ to the way he’d responded moments before the gate had begun to buckle, as if he had sensed him. As if whatever power flowed through Taran had recognized something in this Cole fellow.

Dorian shivered and tried not to think through the implications.

Cole was looking at Taran earnestly through his lashes, daggers now sheathed at his sides. He took a step forward, only to still when Cassandra and the Bull took their own threatening step closer—protecting Taran. He wet his lips. “People are coming to hurt you,” Cole told Taran with complete sincerity. Then, bashful, “You probably already know.”

“What is this?” Taran asked. “What’s going on?”

The boy’s voice dropped to a low murmur as he said, “The Templars come to kill you.”

“ _Templars?_ ” Cullen demanded, stalking forward; the boy immediately scampered back, skittish as a colt. His eyes were huge in his face as he stared at the commander. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“It’s all right,” Taran said, faintly glowing green hand extended to Cole. “You can trust us. Please, tell us what you know.”

Cole gave a slight shake of his head. “The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” he said, as if the words made any sort of logical sense. He moved closer to Taran, ignoring the way the Bull tensed; the way Dorian gripped his staff. His attention seemed riveted on the Herald, eyes imploring him to understand. “You know him?” he said. “He knows you. You took his mages.”

He spun, pointing, voice gone low and breathless. “ _There_.”

Dorian’s heart stuttered in his chest as he turned to look, half-expecting…Maker, he didn’t even know what. Some monster from the old tales, hissing and cackling and ready to swoop in and take Taran from him. There was movement, and a flash of deep, unsettling red in the heart of the churning mass of enemies, but whatever the Elder One was, he was still too far away to be clear.

Still, a shiver worked its way down his spine.

“He’s _very angry_ you took his mages,” Cole whispered.

And then, as if on cue, the dragon _roared,_ its cry echoing through the valley. It had yet to attack, but it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Taran went still, body coiled tight. Visibly horrified by the monsters come to take Haven, to claim his life, to steal back what was stolen. With each second that passed, death crept ever-closer.

“Cullen,” he said, a note of desperation in his voice as a dark shape crouched amongst the horde, long tail whipping eagerly, “give me a plan. Anything.”

“Haven is no fortress,” Cullen warned. He seemed very pale in the moonlight. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can.”

Dorian sputtered, not understanding. _Get out there?_ Did Cullen honestly expect them to, what, wave their swords and staves at an entire _army_? At a _dragon?_ But Taran seemed to understand—and agree with—whatever Cullen was suggesting. He gave a curt nod and drew his sword.

For his part, Cullen turned away from the gates, his own blade catching distant firelight as he lifted it high. “Mages!” he called, voice rising. The other two advisors broke off, rushing toward the tents and the Chantry, respectively—as if all bloody four of them could read bloody minds. Bloody void.

Cullen strode toward the gathering troops. “You have sanction to engage them. Inquisition, with the Herald—for your lives!” He turned, blade raised, eyes flashing, backed by a fierce wall of sound as their bedraggled army raised their voices in solidarity. “For all of us!”

 _For all of us_ , Dorian thought, fingernails digging into the wood of his staff. The strange boy was gone—dissipated like smoke—and Cassandra was pointing toward the north. “They will need us at the trebuchets,” she said, already in motion, Taran beside her. Bull cast Dorian a quick look and a shrug, then jogged to follow, loosening his giant axe as he went. Dorian cursed beneath his breath and fell in step, trying to take in the chaos of the night. It was complete madness, flaming spheres arcing toward the mountainside, swords rattling against armor, screams punctuating the war drum beat of his heart. His foot skid in red-black snow as they moved along the wall, and he caught an impression of staring eyes and a twisted-wide grimace.

The forward guard had already breached the outer defenses, it seemed.

“There!” Taran cried, peeling off from the group to rush a hulking shadow. It turned, features twisted up into a snarl…body caked in shards of _red lyrium_. The thing—no longer man, not quite beast—roared and flung itself toward Taran, and the spell ripped from Dorian’s fingers before he even knew he was casting.

It exploded in licking flames and deepest shadow, catching the creature’s forward momentum and sending it scuttling back. Taran leapt over the catching fire, sword up and swinging down _hard_. The reverberation was deafening, glorious, but Dorian didn’t have time to concentrate on his Voice’s swordwork: the shadows were moving all around them, abominations pouring out of the night.

Despite the nightmare quality of their pitched battle for survival, they all soon fell into a steady tempo. Dorian hung back flinging spells as best he could while Taran, Cassandra, and the Bull waded into the heart of the melee. Screams split the night and swords clashed as they pushed their way to the northern trebuchets where a small team of scouts worked desperately to keep the giant machines firing.

“We’re here to help!” Taran called, turning on his heel and taking up a defensive posture. His expression was fierce, beautiful, and Dorian’s heart might have lodged in his throat at the sight if he could manage to beat back sheer panic long enough to admire his Voice.

The girl turning the crank looked up, a dark hank of hair falling over one eye. “Thank the Maker!” she said, muscles straining as she worked. “They’ve been coming at us in regular waves, and I can’t—there!”

Dorian caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and expertly pivoted, sending up a wall of flames. Sparks hissed as they fell into melting snowbanks, and from somewhere near came a hollow scream. He began to ready his next spell, only to lose it when a red-streaked terror pushed through his fire, Templar armor pitted and cracked, surcoat burning around him. He only _just_ lifted his staff in time, deflecting the first blow. It echoed through his body like a struck chord, sending Dorian reeling back—feet slipping on blood and melted snow, breath caught high in his throat.

He very nearly fell, balance all but lost, as the Templar reared back to strike him—huge, _huge_ , filling his vision like a fiery hell, worse than any demon from the Fade. Dorian sucked in a sharp breath, preparing himself for agony—

—only to let it out on a gasp when a strong hand grabbed the front of his robe and shoved him back, _Taran_ stepping between Dorian and the red Templar. He lifted his sword in an effortless arc, sparks scattering at the sheer weight of the blow—blocked, metal clanging, Taran’s muscles tense. Taran gave a low snarl and _shoved_ , using momentum to send the Templar stumbling back two steps, three, greatsword briefly falling.

That was all the opening Taran needed. He lunged forward, his own greatsword swinging, and cleaved the Templar’s head clear from his body. Lyrium cracked and fell, scattering about them as the hulking beast collapsed in a halo of its own blood, Taran standing over it with his sword ready for a second blow.

Dorian let out a puff of breath, shocked and elated and frightened and and and so bloody in love he could barely stand it. He wanted to fling himself into Taran’s arms and kiss all over his stupidly brave face; some echo of that must have been in his eyes, because when Taran turned with an, “Are you all right?”, he actually _blushed_ all the way up to his hairline at whatever he saw there.

Taran bit his lip, lowering his sword. He looked instantly bashful and sweet and _interested_ , and Dorian may have decided _to hell with the battle_ and flung himself into his arms if the scout manning the trebuchet didn’t choose that moment to shout:

“Keep them back—we’re ready to fire!”

Taran looked toward her and nodded, then lifted his sword again. “No rest for the wicked,” he told Dorian with a quick almost-smile before launching back into battle. Dorian shook himself out, forcing his thoughts to clear, and the steady tempo of battle overtook them again—broken here or there by shouts of “Flank them!” or “Kill the warrior!” and underlaid by Taran’s commands and the Bull’s loud, echoing, absolutely _insane_ laughter.

The qunari was actually enjoying the bloodbath; he was completely barking mad.

Finally, _finally,_ the scout called, “Centered and clear!” There was a crack and the sound of gears grinding, then: “Firing!”

Dorian turned just as the trebuchet launched a ball of flame high into the air, arcing with deadly precision toward the gathering horde. There was a moment of near-stillness as they all held their breaths, broken by a distant _boom!_ Screams, cries, howls of outrage and terror: they were all enough to make the scout grin fiercely as she looked back toward them.

“They felt that!” she said, shoving back her hair before doggedly beginning to load another shot. Meanwhile a second flaming ball arced through the air, aimed higher this time. Dorian watched, breath held, as it sailed toward the distant snow-capped peaks. The impact reverberated through the valley, cracks of rock and ice almost deafening…followed by a strange shushing noise, like a thousand voices whispered at once.

“What,” he began, but he needn’t have asked. Within moments, a heavy sheet of snow and ice detached from its peak, tumbling down the mountain toward the gathered Templar army. That strange shush became a shout, then a _roar_ , and Dorian gave a cry as the deadly avalanche raced toward their foe. It didn’t seem possible, and yet—and _yet_ —it was happening right before his eyes: hundreds of Templars lost in a crushing sea of white, the flames of their torches snuffed out as if by the Maker’s breath.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra cried, her voice almost lost beneath the deep boom of familiar horns—the sudden overwhelming roar of triumph. Haven all but shook with the ululation, hundreds of voices lifted in cheers as the invading army crumbled beneath a single well-aimed blow.

The Bull dropped his hand on Taran’s shoulder. “It isn’t over, boss,” he warned—

—and as if his words were prophecy, a sudden _screech_ rent the air. It overpowered the cries of celebration, transmutating them into panicked screams as the dragon launched out of its prison of snow, dark wings beating the air. It spiraled up up up, neck snapping back and mouth glowing forge-bright.

“Get back!” Cassandra yelled, grabbing for Taran’s arm and yanking him away as a stream of fire erupted from the night, consuming the second, more northern trebuchet. It exploded in a brilliant fireball, far far too close for comfort, the dragon swooping in before rising up for a second attack. Its scales caught the light cast off the burning trebuchet, revealing its massive size, its twisted features, its familiar-yet-not visage.

An archdemon? No, it couldn’t be possible.

“Get back,” Taran echoed, sounding dazed at the sight. Each beat of the oh, Maker, yes, _archdemon’s_ wings blew flurries of snow and sparks around them. “There’s no fighting this. _Run!_ ”

Dorian didn’t need to be told twice. He spun on his heel, only waiting long enough to be sure Taran was by his side before sprinting down the winding path toward the gate. Strange, fiendish Templars they could face, an army of monsters they could find a way to outsmart, but a _bloody fucking archdemon? “_ Today is now well beyond making sense!” he cried, ducking as the dragon swooped past, flame trickling from the corners of its maw like liquid gold.

They passed the burning shell of the blacksmith’s shop on the way to the gates, Harritt battering desperately at the door. “Blasted shoulder!” he snarled. Turning, distraught, he said, “Herald! Help me with this door!”

“There is no time,” Cassandra warned, but Taran was already veering toward Harritt—because of bloody course he was. The older man stepped aside quickly as Taran swung his greatsword, crashing through the crates that had fallen to block the door. Debris scattered around them from one huge blow, two, three, and the door to the flaming forge swung wide.

Harritt cast Taran a grateful, soot-streaked smile. “Thanks, Herald,” he said, shouldering his way inside.

“Uh, boss,” the Bull said, eye following the dragon as it criss-crossed the sky, burning buildings, fortifications, their entire bloody home in its wake. “We better get a move on.”

“Let us help you,” Taran said to Harritt. “You need to get to safety.”

But the blacksmith just waved him off. “You go on ahead,” he said. “Just grabbing essentials! Won’t die for the forge.”

Taran opened his mouth to protest, and Dorian reached out to grab his arm. “If we stay here, we all die,” he urged—begged. He _would_ beg if he had to. He would knock Taran over the head and _drag_ him to safety, because in this moment, nothing else mattered so much as knowing Taran would make it out of this okay.

_Please, Maker, let him be okay._

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. Taran hesitated just a moment more before jerking his chin in agreement and letting himself be swept up toward the gates. They were busted open, desperate fighting already in progress just around the bend. One of the Inquisition soldiers called out for help and battle renewed: vicious, bloody, _terrifying_ , that dragon swooping overhead setting Haven alight around them. Dorian planted his feet and threw himself into desperate defense, praying— _praying_ —for the chance to survive every moment that passed.

The next few minutes bled together in a haze of heat and ash and terror, with wave after wave of twisted monsters pouring over the spiked walls. It seemed like they barely stumbled twenty feet before they were faced with another knot of invaders, another soul in need of rescue. The tavern was glowing like a distant coal, desperate shouts barely heard over the crackle of flames. Dorian was so focused on building a wall of ice between his Voice and the oncoming horde that he almost missed Bull shouldering his way inside the desiccated building, Cassandra and Taran following in his wake. He almost missed the rescue of Flissa.

 _We’re going to die_ , he kept thinking, stepping over bodies of allies and enemies alike, caught up in the riptide of battle. Then, spotting Taran’s exhausted but determined face: _No._ _I won’t let him die._

They saved Adan. They saved Minaeve. They barely made it in time to save bloody _Threnn_ , and the whole time Dorian had to swallow back words of protest as the Inquisition burned around them. They were running out of time, Haven overrun by the forward guard, that beast spiraling high overhead as if to admire a job well done.

“There is nothing left,” he tried to protest, grabbing at Taran’s shoulder. His fine armor was dented and spattered with blood. His handsome face was drawn with exhaustion. “Taran. _Taran_ ,” he repeated, holding on when Taran would have pushed on toward the heart of the burning camp. Those copper-brown eyes met his, and Dorian gave in to the impulse to cup the curve of Taran’s jaw; he brushed his thumb across the light rasp of stubble, wiping away a streak of gore. “There’s no one left to save but yourself.”

“That isn’t true,” Taran said, and his voice was rough with smoke. The whole world was burning, and there was nothing left of the life he’d built but ash. Maker, he looked so young. “There’s always someone.”

 _There’s always someone_. Someone who needed him, someone who looked to him, someone who depended on him. What had the Inquisition done to this boy, piling the responsibility of so many lives on such young shoulders? It wasn’t _fair_.

Dorian swiped his thumb across Taran’s cheek again, willing him to see the emotion no doubt brimming in his eyes. He was too exhausted himself to keep it in check. _Venhedis_ , why should he even try? If they were going to die today, what point was there in keeping secrets? “Then save me,” Dorian said, quiet, as if the world had fallen away and it was only the two of them left standing here. “If you have to save someone, save _me_.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish, and a ploy to draw Taran into the safety of the chantry, but Dorian didn’t care—how could he when he could actually _see_ Taran soften in agreement? He leaned his head to press his cheek against Dorian’s hand, lashes flickering closed; giving himself in to the inevitability of retreat. Then Taran nodded and gently pulled away. “All right,” he said, sheathing his sword. Several steps back, a wary Cassandra and Bull followed his lead. “I’ll save you, Dorian.”

There was a note of determination in his words and his jaw set as he led them into their waiting tomb.

Chaos reined even here, but Dorian couldn’t miss the flash of lank blonde hair and awkward limbs as the strange boy from before appeared to welcome them—at Chancellor Roderick’s elbow, of all places. The Chancellor looked rough, his body hunched forward as if in incredible pain as he gestured them and another small knot of fleeing Inquisition soldiers inside with a, “Move, keep going! The chantry is your shelter.”

They slipped inside, the horror beyond the walls instantly muffled. Taran turned. “Chancellor,” he began…

…only to freeze when Roderick collapsed mid-step, one hand pressed to sodden robes. The strange boy caught him easily, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. One skinny arm wrapped around the older man’s waist.

“He tried to stop a Templar,” Cole said, carefully helping Roderick away from the now-barred door toward a stool partway down the transom. Cassandra rushed off deeper into the chantry, murmuring that she would return with help. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

“What a…charming…boy,” Roderick managed dryly.

Taran moved as if to follow them, only to be brought up short by Cullen’s arrival. “Herald,” Cullen said. He sounded grim.

“Commander,” Taran said as he turned his focus to the former Templar. Searching for good news? Maker knew there wasn’t any to be had. “What’s our situation?”

“Our position is not good,” Cullen said. “The dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

From his place crouched by the dying Chancellor’s side, Cole offered, “I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

 _In the Fade?_ The idea was utterly ridiculous, unless the boy had been in the physical Fade, which was even _more_ ridiculous. But before Dorian could protest the idea, Cullen was already shrugging it off roughly. “I don’t care what it looks like,” he snapped. “It has cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole wasn’t finished. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

Dorian felt a flash of protective fear—of rage. He opened his mouth to protest, only to go silent when a huge hand dropped to his shoulder. The Bull had sidled up behind him (and Maker’s blood, but that beast moved quietly when he wanted) and was shaking his head, one finger over his lips.

 _Not now_ , he seemed to be saying, but if not now, then _when?_ It was clear enough they were all running out of time.

“If you know why he wants me,” Taran was saying, turned to face Cole, “please just say it.”

Cole shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway.” He hesitated, then cocked his head and added, “I don’t like him.”

“You _don’t like_ …” Cullen began, then stopped, exasperated beyond words. He let out a harsh breath and refocused on Taran. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“We’re overrun,” Taran said. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

Cullen’s expression turned grim. “We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

 _No,_ Dorian wanted to say. _No, no, no._ He tensed, and Bull tensed with him, grip tightening. _What does he think I’ll do?_ Dorian wondered as the Chancellor and Cole spoke in riddles about some…summer passage and Fate or whatnot. _What could I possibly do now that would matter?_

Some insane dark force had come for his Voice, and he was all but helpless to stop it. Nothing in all his life had prepared him for this. There was no magic, no cleverness, that made this bearable—because Dorian didn’t have to be told that Taran would sacrifice himself to save everyone if he had to. It was written all over the other man’s face. It was in every line of his body.

It was not _fair_.

“I don’t know, Herald,” Roderick was saying. “If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

Taran shook his head, but not in denial. He looked like he was actually considering what the old man was saying—taking this hope of escape at face value. “What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

“Possibly,” Cullen said. “ _If_ he shows us the path. But what of your escape?”

Taran, tellingly, did not reply. Bull’s grip on Dorian’s shoulder tightened.

Cullen’s expression was softer than he had ever seen it, sorrow and understanding there as Taran’s suicidal plan became clear to all. Maker, were they all really just standing here accepting this? “Perhaps you will surprise it. Find a way…” He couldn’t seem to finish. Instead he turned to call out to the men waiting anxiously at the other end of the transom. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. You three—” He rattled off his orders to a trio of grim-faced soldiers, who all nodded and rushed past, out through the doors and into the night. Madness, _madness._ “They’ll load the trebuchets,” Cullen told Taran. “In the meantime, keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line. If we are to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance—let that thing hear you.” And then he strode away to gather the rest of the lost lambs deeper into the church.

Roderick rose unsteadily, resting most of his weight on Cole’s skinny shoulders. The hand clasped over his wound was slick and dripping with blood; it left a brilliant red trail in his slow wake. “Herald,” he said, meeting Taran’s eyes one last time, “if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.”

“Thank you,” Taran murmured, bowing his head as if accepting benediction. The Chancellor shuffled off to lead what remained of the Inquisition to safety, past Cullen and his small knot of soldiers. And for _some bloody reason_ the three of them were remaining behind instead of taking their chances on living another day.

Bull was still gripping his shoulder tight, as if he could sense Dorian winding up into something dark and afraid, but once the three of them were alone, Dorian no longer let that control his tongue. “What are you even _thinking_?” he hissed, drawing Taran’s startled attention to the two of them. “What’s the bloody point of sacrificing yourself like some hero of a bad melodrama? _We should go with them._ ”

“Dorian,” Taran said— _gently_ , as if trying to find a way to let him down. “I know you’re upset—”

Dorian violently shrugged off Bull’s grip and stepped forward, into Taran’s space. He was bristling, long past upset. “Oh, you know that, do you?” he challenged. “And what, pray tell, gave it away? You do realize that this is utter madness,” Dorian added before Taran could respond. “You are being asked to _distract a dragon_ , possibly an archdemon—because yes! Of course! That is a thing that happens! Why not, the world is already falling to pieces—and call an avalanche down on your own head so a handful of soldiers can muddle through the mountains to—”

“Dorian,” Taran said again, reaching out for him.

Dorian batted his hands away. “They are asking you to commit suicide,” he hissed. “They are asking you to _die_ for them, on the far chance that they might manage to slink off into the night. Because, oh, why not? You already saved the bloody _fucking_ world by closing the breach; _why not_ let you throw your life into the void for them too?”

“ _Dorian._ ” Taran gently— _gently_ —caught Dorian’s flailing hands, curling their fingers together. He was even closer now—close enough that Dorian could feel the heat of him, the indescribable _tug_ of the unforged bond humming bright and hopeful between them—and his expression was cracked wide open. _Vulnerable_ , letting Dorian see absolutely everything. The fear that matched Dorian’s own, the hope, the determination as strong and steady as the Frostbacks themselves.

Maker, this boy. He had a spine of pure steel and heart just made to bleed. Maybe this point was inevitable; maybe if he wasn’t stepping forward to die for the Inquisition today, he would have done it in a week’s time. A month’s.

 _Our time has been running out from long before we met_ , Dorian thought, and the idea—the inevitability—of that made his tense muscles loosen. The fight went out of him in a rush of breath as he met Taran’s eyes and saw himself reflected there.

There’d be no convincing Taran not to do this mad thing, but that didn’t mean Dorian couldn’t be by his side when the clock finally ran down. If he was so determined to throw his life away to save everyone else, well then…Dorian supposed he could play the brave hero too.

“Dorian,” Taran began again, but Dorian simply shook his head before he could continue. There wasn’t time for this, he knew. The end was bloody fucking nigh.

“Don’t,” he said. “You don’t have to. Maker knows I couldn’t stop you. So…” He took a breath and tightened his grip on Taran’s hands, trying to content himself with the short time they’d been given. It was so much more than he’d ever thought he’d have, after all. “I will go with you instead. Help you distract this archdemon or Elder One or whatever nonsense and save the bloody day.” He pasted on a smile that felt, strangely, almost real. Saying the words out loud made them feel more settled in his skull; he was doing this. They were doing this.

Death somehow didn’t seem so very frightening when he was looking straight into his soulmate’s eyes.

“So we need to be noticed?” Dorian said, trying for a bit of levity. He began to pull away. “Happens to be a specialty of mine. In fact—”

He stopped, startled, when Taran tightened his grip, not allowing Dorian to pull away. There was… _fire_ in the other man’s eyes, burning bright. Love, without anything left to hide it, as if all the fumbling excuses had been stripped away in their last few minutes—and oh, Andraste, at least there was _that_. “Dorian,” Taran said, stepping even closer—so close he could taste his breath. Their clasped hands were caught between them, Dorian’s curled fingers pressed tight against Taran’s chest. He could count each beat of his heart, could feel the moment his own fell into easy tempo, as if this was the way they were always meant to be. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I…”

But he trailed off before he could finish, gaze flicking away, over Dorian’s shoulder, as if he couldn’t bring himself to meet Dorian’s eyes.

“Whatever you want to tell me,” Dorian said quietly, “can wait until we’ve all survived this.” Even though they both knew that wasn’t going to happen, it was enough—this was enough. It had to be.

Taran shook his head, refocusing on him. He’d never looked so beautiful, or so sad. “No,” he said. “It has to be now.” Then he sighed and leaned forward, brushing their mouths together in the softest of kisses.

It was like a whisper, a prayer, a single breath shared between the two of them. The subtle glide of their lips leading to a shared inhalation—soft soft soft—and the inevitable brush of tongues. Hot, yet not erotic, each kiss melting into another. Another.

Time…time didn’t matter. Slowed, quickened, _who cared?_ The circling archdemon and the Elder One’s army could have been a dream for all he thought about them now, here, pressed against Taran and hungrily taking each kiss to tide him over until the end. There had been so many years of wanting and not having: _venhedis_ , but it felt good to finally let go of everything that had kept them apart and just _be_. Here, with Taran, no more walls between them.

…well. There was one left, he supposed. One truth he’d kept to himself. But what good would it do to tell Taran they were soulmates minutes before they were to die?

 _Better keep it to yourself,_ Dorian thought, knees going week as the kiss lingered long and slow and sweeter than anything he’d ever felt before. It hurt, almost; it made his whole body sing. _Better to take that to the grave._

And then Taran was pulling back just enough to look at him. His expression was so wistful, so sad, it broke something inside Dorian to see it. He’d give anything to banish the shadows there. “Dorian,” Taran said slowly—roughly—voice strung tight with whatever regret he was feeling. “I just… I needed you to know…”

“It’s all right,” Dorian tried to sooth.

Taran kept going, dogged. Stubborn until the very end. “I needed you to know,” he repeated, keeping Dorian’s gaze locked on his. Shining in that way he always had. “I love you. And I’m so sorry.” He loosened his grip on Dorian’s hands, wrapping one strong arm around his waist, his free hand cupping the line of his jaw, keeping Dorian focused on him. His thumb brushed once across Dorian’s lower lip. “I wish I could have been a better Voice for you.”

Dorian froze, shocked. _He knows_. The thought was distant, frantic, wrapped in layers of confusion. How, _how_ had Taran found out? What had given him away?

And more importantly—what the _fuck_ was he doing?

“Taran—” He tried to pull away, but Taran held him, gentle but firm.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he said again, absolutely torn—and that was the moment Dorian finally heard the Bull sneaking up on those ridiculously silent feet. He felt a flash of horror, of loss, as he suddenly pieced it all together. Taran had no intention of letting him die; Taran was determined to face this Elder One alone. He was about to _lose his Voice_ , and no, no, no, no,

“ _No_ ,” he managed, seconds before a giant fist came crashing down, catching him across the back of the skull. Pain blossomed bright, and his knees buckled, but Taran was already holding him—catching him easily against his broad chest as Dorian sank down down down into darkness. Nothing left but a pinprick of light, and Taran’s anguished face as he looked at him, saying goodbye for the final time.

 _I can’t lose you_ , he thought, aching, weighted down by a lifetime of regret. _Please, please, not again._

And then, nothing but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: For the curious, this is the point where Taran figured it out. He was thinking about how insane it was that he felt SO MUCH for Dorian in such a short time and...
> 
>  _I do_ , Taran thought, snickering against the curve of Dorian’s neck, light as a feather inside. _I do, I do love you._ He pressed that knowledge in soft kisses against warm brown skin. He whispered it with the brush of his tongue. He surrendered to it completely, unquestioningly, letting the revelation unfold piece by piece until it was all but filling him—until he was thrumming with awareness of his own love.
> 
> It didn’t matter that they’d only had a few weeks together. He knew.
> 
> _He knew._


	25. Cassandra

“Keep moving!” Cullen cried over the roar of the oncoming storm. He was leading the charge up the hidden mountain pass, away from the chantry. Haven was already a glowing coal in the distance, red Templars only just visible as they swarmed over its meager defenses.

Cassandra hesitated at an overlook, staring down down down at the home she’d helped build. Gone, now. Everything gone.

“Seeker,” Varric said from just behind her. He sounded as worn—as heartsick—as she felt.

“It this right?” she asked, not bothering to look back. The Inquisition troops were streaming by behind them, moving along the pass Counselor Roderick had unearthed. It seemed impossible that the Maker would swoop in and save them in this way…but then, of course, the Maker had been doing the impossible through his Herald from the very beginning. Hadn’t he? “Fleeing Haven. Leaving the Herald to fall. Are we doing the right thing?”

She scanned the ruin and spotted the sole remaining trebuchet. There was movement down by its base: a flash of steel and steady swordwork. _Taran_ , standing alone against the endless waves of corrupted Templars, giving the rest of them the time they needed to escape.

Dying for them.

_Maker_.

There was a soft crunch of snow as Varric moved to stand beside her. She glanced over, catching sight of Bull just over the dwarf’s shoulder, Krem hovering anxiously behind him. Dorian’s unconscious body was folded within the Bull’s huge arms—and _that_ didn’t feel right, either. Were they truly on the path they were meant to walk?

“This is what the kid wanted,” Varric was saying, though he didn’t sound convinced. He rubbed at his face, digging his knuckles against his eyes as if he could grind away everything they’d witnessed in the last few terrible hours. “He—”

“He is a _child_ ,” Cassandra snapped, turning on him. Varric looked up at that, something dark flashing in his eyes—something sharp and canny that she could easily cut herself on if she wasn’t careful. Good. Let him be angry. She needed something, someone, to fight, even as Taran fought all of their battles for them far, far below. “And all children think themselves immortal.”

Varric set his jaw. “He is a hero,” he countered. Before she could say anything (scoffing, because _damn_ his idiotic archetypes anyway) Varric added, flipping their argument on its head in that maddening way he had, “You should know—you’re the one who pushed this on him.”

A few steps away, Krem cleared his throat. “Not to throw myself on your swords,” he said, “but shouldn’t we keep moving?”

“Boss wouldn’t want us to die up here,” Bull pointed out, “anymore than he wanted us to die down _there._ ”

But Cassandra wasn’t willing to be sidetracked. She took a furious step forward, crowding Varric back. The jut of stone beneath their feet wobbled, small rocks tumbling down the sheer mountainside toward the battle far below. (The battle _she_ by all rights should have let claim her.) “The Maker chose him,” she said. Child or hero, innocent or Chosen; it was strange the way her own thoughts about Taran Trevelyan could twist so easily. He was like forged steel in her mind, glowing bright and ever-malleable.

But what weapon would she make of him? Maker, had she turned some Marcher boy into a shield to protect the rest of them from this Elder One?

No, no, no.

“Bullshit,” Varric said, echoing her doubts in that way he had. “ _You_ chose him. The same way you wanted to choose Hawke.” Cassandra stiffened, but Varric wasn’t through. “You’ve been searching for some sadsack to lead your dying cause even before the Conclave. Admit it: if I’d been able to lead you to Hawke, _he_ would’ve been the one down there, ready to lay down his bloody life for the rest of us.”

“I was not looking for a martyr,” Cassandra contested hotly.

Varric barked a harsh laugh. “ _Bullshit_ ,” he said again—and it was all she could do to keep from grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and hurling him off the mountainside. “I could tell what you were after the minute your goons first dragged me into that room. I knew this was where we’d end up, and I wouldn’t have given you Hawke for anything.”

She took another threatening step forward, so close her cold armor bumped against his chest, pushing him back. More rocks scattered down the sheer cliff face. “ _Are you implying_ ,” Cassandra began, furious at all the hours, days, _weeks_ wasted, “that you knew where Hawke was all this time, and you simply _refused_ to—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Bull snapped, harsh enough to drag their attention to him. His one eye was narrowed, and all his usual jovial ease was gone. “Get your shit together. We’ve got to move before—”

“ _Boss!_ ” Krem jolted forward, pointing, as a dark shadow fell over them. Its shape was chillingly familiar, and Cassandra whipped around with her sword in hand as the dragon soared past.

It was _huge_ , mammoth wings spread wide, tail lashing against the storm as it hurtled down toward Haven. It passed close enough that it might have seen them had it only turned its head, the line of Inquisition soldiers and scouts only barely hidden by the secret path’s winding route. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst—the part that left her chilled and small and frozen in horror—was the twisted shape perched at the archdemon’s shoulders. Half-man, half…Maker, she couldn’t even say. It was too monstrous to be real.

“Andraste save us,” Krem whispered, just as Varric said, “Maker’s furry _nutsack_.”

Bull, as usual, was the most concise. “Well. Shit,” he said, shifting the unconscious Dorian in his arms as the dragon swooped down on the final trebuchet in a brilliant bloom of flame.

Cassandra’s fingers curled tight around the hilt of her blade, white-knuckling it as she watched in wordless horror. The Elder One dropped to the ground in a flutter of black cloth, Taran sprawled several dozen yards away. He stirred, stumbling up, visibly favoring his left side. _Hurt_. Wounded and weaponless and oh Maker helpless as the dark figured closed in on him. “We should do something,” she managed, even though there was nothing to do. Even if they took off running now, there was no way they could make it to Taran in time.

“Yeah,” Varric said, standing by her side, eyes fixed on the figures so far below them. “We should do something.” He didn’t move. None of them did as the Elder One advanced.

She watched as Taran faced off against the twisted monster. Watched as the dragon landed behind him, cutting off his retreat. Watched the flames flare higher, sparks swirling like newly fallen snow as the creature pointed a single skeletal finger at the Herald.

_You_ , he seemed to be saying, though there was no real way to know for sure. _Death has come for you._

“What do you figure he’s saying?” Krem murmured, echoing her thoughts. They were not alone on their little overlook, Cassandra realized with a start as she glanced over. Other soldiers, scouts, had begun to slow their escape to watch as Taran faced down the man who would kill them all. There was a part of her that was _so proud_ of how far he’d come so quickly. There was another part that ached with the inevitability of loss.

She shook her head. “I do not know,” she said.

Varric reached out, reflexively grabbing her arm. “Seeker, _look!_ ” he gasped, and she jerked her attention back down to Taran at the sudden flare of red and green light. It swirled between the two opposing forces, terrible in its beauty. The rift magic poured from Taran’s palm as he keeled over, crumpling protectively around his own hand as if in agony. He…he _fell_ , hard to the snow, red sparking around the green as the dragon snarled and the Elder One glowed like the heart of corrupted lyrium, advancing slowly.

“He’s killing him,” Varric said quietly, saying what they were all thinking. “Maker’s breath, kid, _run_.”

“He won’t,” Bull said—and they all knew that too. Taran wouldn’t run, wouldn’t try to save himself, so long as he thought keeping this Elder One’s attention would give the rest of the Inquisition the time it needed to escape.

_And we took it_ , Cassandra thought, hating herself for being safely up here, tucked away in this hidden mountain path. Hating that _nothing_ she did now could save the boy who had already given so much. _I took it._

The red light died as the creature closed his fist. Even at this distance, she could feel his palpable rage as he stalked toward Taran and grabbed his wrist, yanking him up—up—up—until his feet dangled far off the snowy banks. Green fire still spit from Taran’s palm, and he looked so small compared to the monsters flanking him: demons in the dark, come to take him at last.

“Maker preserve him,” Cassandra prayed, watching steadfast. She owed Taran that much, at least—to be witness to his final moments. To remember him always. “Guide his way.”

“No,” Varric said, though Andraste alone knew what he was protesting. “No, _no_. Come on, kid. Fight. You can still _fight_.”

There was a soft cry from behind them, shushed and echoed simultaneously when the Elder One whirled and _flung_ Taran toward the trebuchet. He hit hard, high, crumbling down to its base in a boneless sprawl. For one horrible moment, Cassandra thought it was already over—but then Taran struggled up, pushing himself to his feet with obvious pain.

_Fight_ , she thought, taking up Varric’s chant. _Fight him, Taran. Fight him for us all._

Taran glanced around, then darted to the side, grabbing a forgotten sword. He held it aloft as if he could hear her thoughts, hear Varric’s whispered pleas, hear the collective held breath of the entire Inquisition as they watched him face down the dark. He spat something back at the Elder One, straightening with a will of iron. _Shining_ in the fitful light.

The chosen Herald of Andraste.

Up on the peak, a single flare lit the sky: Cullen’s signal. The last of the troops had gathered around at the lookout, safe for now.  Taran turned his head, looking up into the darkness—for one incredible moment, she felt… She felt as if he could _see her._ As if their eyes were meeting again (for the last time) over the yawning chasm that separated them. She almost imagined she saw forgiveness in his warm gaze.

Then, suddenly, he straightened and faced down the Elder One again—muscles coiled, chin lifted, sword pointing down the madman and his dragon. Taran said something—Maker, how she wished she knew his final words—and _spun_ , kicking out sharply.

“What,” Cassandra began, not understanding.

Bull gave a cheer. “The fucking _trebuchet!_ ” he hooted as the machinery squealed, chains loosening, weight swinging. It launched in a measured arch, throwing its boulder toward the far mountainside with deadly aim. “The boss tricked him in the end; got him right where he wanted him!”

“Maker’s ruddy asscheeks,” Krem said with a laugh as the huge boulder crashed into the distant peak. The impact was incredible, followed by a moment of pure, weighted silence. Then, _crack crack crack_ , followed by a hush like a hundred voices whispering at once—a thousand—a hundred thousand as an ice flow was knocked free and snow began to topple down the sheer cliff face toward the teeming army…and Haven.

“Yes,” one of the scouts whispered, then another: “Yes!” All around them, excitement bubbled as the Elder One whipped around to stare at his coming doom: a wave of snow ready to bury him in his new tomb.

Varric’s fingers dug into Cassandra’s arm, hard enough to ache. “Run, kid,” he said, voice a broken croak. “Ah, fuck, _run_.”

“He’ll never outrun it,” Cassandra said, watching as Taran dropped the blade and fled. The dragon took a step forward, snapping at his retreating form, but Taran dodged away, slipping on pools of freezing blood and vaulting over corpses. He looked once over his shoulder, though she couldn’t trick herself into believing he saw anything but his own death now. It rushed toward him in a white roar, drowning out the dragon’s bellow as the creature snatched its master up in its claws and launched into the sky.

“ _Damn_ it,” Krem said as both monsters escaped—but Cassandra and Varric only had eyes for the small figure of their Herald, racing to snatch just a few more seconds away from the Maker. The avalanche was nearly upon him, crashing over the gates of Haven and crushing everything in its wake.

She sucked in a breath and fumbled for Varric’s hand, feeling a strange moment of solidarity in this loss. He was right. Maker, he was _right._ “I did this,” she said, stunned, heartbroken, as the Marcher boy she’d plucked out of prison and forced into the fray faced his last breaths. “I brought him to this.”

“Yeah,” Varric said, utterly merciless in this moment of truth. “We both did.”

Then, quietly, as the sheer wall of white overtook Taran Trevelyan, burying him with all those who had fallen before him this night: “…shit.”

Cassandra could only close her eyes against the roar of the avalanche—the distressed murmur of the crowd—the guilty, aching, _lost_ recriminations ringing in her own head—and quietly agree.

Haven had fallen.

The Herald was lost.

The night was at its darkest.

And there was nothing left to do but wait for the end to come at last.


	26. Krem

Krem looked out over the sad groupings of tents dotting the mountainside. Inquisition troops were still scouting the area, but after what felt like forever, Cullen had finally given word that they could camp “for a short time”. Maker only knew how long _that_ would be. If he was smart at all, he’d be huddled in his cloak next to one of the small fires, trying to get some rest.

Instead he was…here, standing sentry at the edge of the makeshift infirmary tent, watching the stars in the wounded sky.

“You know, Chief,” Krem said quietly, reaching up to brush stray snowflakes from his hair, “from here, it almost looks like there never was a breach.” Wouldn’t that be nice? To be able to pretend that none of this shit had happened—the Conclave, the tear in the sky, the sodding demons everywhere, the fall of Haven, the death of…

The death…

_Shit_.

Some feet back, hunched with his elbows on his knees as he watched over the unconscious ‘Vint, Bull snorted. “Look harder, Krem,” he said. There was a tired, _weary_ note in his rumbling voice. Mournful, if Krem wanted to put fancy words to it. (And Maker, he really, really didn’t want to be thinking along those lines. Not yet.) “Scars’re there if you look hard enough.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” Varric added. He was on the ‘Vint’s other side, tipped back on a crate as he worked over his crossbow.

Krem turned to look at him, taking in the way moonlight cast harsh shadows across his face; the way exhaustion and grief made him look _old_. Old and frail and barely holding it all together, dexterous hands pulling levers and coils by route. The tie that usually held back his hair had been lost somewhere along the way—all thanks to the howling winds that ripped through the pass, no doubt—and lank gold strands fell about his cheeks, swinging forward in a curtain to shield Varric’s face as he dropped his chin.

Well, that was fair enough. Krem wasn’t sure he’d want some punk staring and silently cataloging his shades of loss, either.

He moved away from the mouth of the tent, ignoring the quiet murmur of argument just past the way. Ignoring, too, the blond-haired boy crouched over Counselor Roderick in the adjacent tent, white hands fluttering like strange birds over the dying man.

Instead, he focused on Bull, and Varric, and…and _him_ , the ‘Vint wrapped up snug as you please in a pilfered blanket, features lax in sleep. It was only a matter of time before he struggled his way back into consciousness.

“He dead?” Krem asked coldly, more to be a shit than anything else.

Bull flickered a glance toward him, something knowing in that one beady eye. “Nope,” he said easily.

Krem snorted. “I’m sure he would be if you hadn’t’ve snagged him from whatever swoon you found him in,” he said, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to pick a fight about it. Maybe he was hoping for sheer spite to keep him going. To distract him? One of the two, at least; he couldn’t slow down long enough to investigate his own churning emotions. Not if he wanted to outrun this terrible night. “Maybe you should just leave him when we move on,” Krem added sourly. “Let those red lyrium bastards have him.”

Varric made a torn noise low in his throat; Bull just fixed him with a surprisingly gentle stare. “Can’t do that,” he said placidly enough, leaning his weight forward, hands dangling between his knees. “Promised the boss I’d get him out of this in one piece. I plan to make good on that.”

Krem automatically opened his mouth to sass back, then paused as the words sunk in.

Wait. What?

“You promised Ta—” _fuck, don’t say his name; not here, not now, not yet,_ “the boss you’d drag this useless ‘Vint out of Haven?” When could that have happened? And…why?

Bull shrugged a shoulder. “He wasn’t particularly useless until I cracked him upside the head,” he said. At Krem’s startled noise, Bull added, “There was no dragging him anywhere without it. He wasn’t going to leave the boss’s side.”

“That should have been true of all of us,” Varric pointed out. He was still bent over his crossbow, hair still shielding his face—but his shoulders were hunched forward and he looked the perfect picture of misery, every bit of him drained dry. As if the guilt of it all was eating him up inside.

The worst of it was, Krem wasn’t sure he was _wrong_.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Instead, he pounced on this new mystery, the promise of distraction a welcome respite.

“Why would the boss ask you to do that?” The question felt disingenuous even as he asked it. He remembered watching the two of them together, in the short time leading up to the attack. Taran’s wide smile whenever Dorian so much as looked his way. The earnest, awkward way he spoke of him. The stolen glances, and rare touches, like they were in some sort of romantic melodrama.

It couldn’t have been more obvious that Taran was carrying a torch for the ‘Vint. Krem supposed he just hadn’t realized it was _that_ serious. Forcing Bull to take out Dorian, then haul him like a sack of turnips around had lost Taran two potential allies in the fight—was his fledgling crush really so powerful that he was willing to risk that? It seemed insane to consider, and yet… “He was so far gone, then?”

Varric made another torn noise; Bull just hummed low in his throat. Krem scowled, sensing they were keeping something from him. Well, fine. Fuck it. It was all in the past now anyway, wasn’t it? “Never mind,” he said, turning away to look out over the sad little Inquisition camp scattered far and wide across the crest of the mountain; up above, stars winked around the jagged scar in the sky.

It was going to be a cold night. They had supplies thanks to the caches a paranoid Leliana kept all along the various passes leading to Haven, but it wasn’t nearly enough to see all of them through in anything approaching comfort. More than one soldier would huddle blanketless around the fire tonight; Krem wondered, aching, how many would never wake from that frozen slumber?

He shivered, wrapping his arms instinctively around his middle, letting the cold quiet of the mountainside seep into his bones. Even surrounded by the remains of the Inquisition army, the world seemed still, as if everyone was holding their breath—waiting for a miracle that wasn’t coming. He—

“It was about soulmates,” Varric said suddenly, disrupting the silence and the darkening spiral of Krem’s thoughts. Krem turned back, startled—shocked _. What the fuck?_ “Maker’s beard, it’s always about bloody soulmates. No matter where I turn.”

A crate creaked as Bull shifted. Now he was staring down Varric with a mild frown. “Not sure that was your secret to tell,” he chided.

Krem’s head was whirling too fast to pay attention to the way Varric shrugged and muttered, “Doesn’t matter now, does it? The kid’s dead.” Because…because that all made no sense, and yet it made _perfect_ sense. Soulmates. Shit. The ‘Vint had been mucking with Taran’s head after all, making him think he felt things he had no reason to feel. Using power over his…

_Unum vinctum._

The word—one he hadn’t thought in a very long time—sent a shiver of horror down Krem’s spine. “You knew about this?” he asked Bull—no, _demanded_ of him, voice going clipped with the growing simmer of anger. _Unum vinctum. Unum vinctum._ There wasn’t a single person he knew growing up who hadn’t lived in fear they’d be hunted down and dragged before some, some _mage_. Forced to bond with them, to be their fucking pet. Chained all the way down to the soul, and fuck, fuck, the minute Dorian _fucking_ Pavus opened his eyes and gathered his wits about him, Krem would deck him good. It figured the ‘Vint would think he had _any right_ to—

Bull stood, the crate groaning in protest beneath him. “Sit down, Krem,” he said, gesturing Krem forward.

Krem showed him his teeth. “Thanks, Chief,” he said; each word felt like he was spitting acid, fury and shock swirling sick deep in his gut. “But I think I’ll just—”

“Sit.”

There wasn’t any special stress on the word. No emphasis that underlined it, italicized it, made it stand out in any way. And yet Krem moved to obey the way he usually only obeyed Bull in battle, sitting on the crate Bull had so recently abandoned, his hands curling into fists on his knees. _Angry_ , but also fighting back the hot burn of tears again for no good reason he could figure.

It was stupid. The fury, the… _Okay, Krem, be honest_ : the panic that had spiked inside of him at that old word he thought he’d left far behind him. Rising like a haunt from the shadows, proving that even here at the end of the world, he wasn’t _safe_. It didn’t matter that no one had ever given him reason to believe _he_ might be an _unum vinctum_ —the fear was a part of life back where he grew up, and it looked like there was no real escaping it, even now. Because if a Tevinter mage had tracked Taran Trevelyan down out in the ass-end of nowhere and tried to chain him mind, heart and soul, then what guarantee was there that something similar couldn’t happen to _Krem_? To any of them?

_Guard your dreams carefully, child._ He could almost hear his grandmother’s shaking voice reaching out across the years. _For there may well be someone hiding there watching your every move._

He shivered and turned cold eyes on the sleeping mage.

“Talk,” Bull said.   _Gently_ , like he understood. ‘Course, he would understand, wouldn’t he? The idea of having someone climbing up inside your head wasn’t alien to the Qunari—it was just they chose to submit themselves to the whatever-they-were-called who mucked about with your brain, your personality, your free will. They chose the Qun, or they walked away. Krem hadn’t actually known many who’d been _chosen_ for the _unique fucking honor_ of being some ‘Vint’s kept pet, but he sure as shit knew they hadn’t been given the choice to walk away.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again when the words got tangled up in his head.  Maker, how was he supposed to _explain_? To describe what it was like being a kid and watching as your best friend was taken away, as if it were a fucking _honor_? To know that there could even be another magister out there somewhere, watching him trip through dreams every night, biding his time before claiming Krem as his own?

There wasn’t any romance in that. No matter what you called it— _unum vinctum_ or Voice—there wasn’t any parity, any balance, any way to build _trust_. The power was always in the mage’s hands, and how could that ever be anything but a crime?

“So,” Krem said, voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Taran was his _unum vinctum_.”

“Voice,” Varric clarified. He shrugged a shoulder at Krem’s glare. “What do I know about it, right? I’m just a dwarf.”

“Yeah.” Krem curled his hands into loose fists. “That’s right. What the fuck do you know?”

Varric had the gall to laugh at that. It was a rusty sound, aged and well-worn. He balanced the crossbow on his knee and rubbed his free hand across his face. “Don’t let it deceive you, kid,” he said dryly. “I’m something of an expert on the matter. Entirely not by choice.”

He wanted to demand to know what the fuck Varric was talking about. Dwarves, dwarves were the only lucky ones. They never dreamed, so they didn’t have to worry about eyes in the dark, watching their every move. They didn’t have to worry about some stranger claiming pieces of themselves like they had any right.

But Varric just shrugged a shoulder. “There are some things I kept out of the Tales of the Champion,” he admitted. “But believe me: _unum vinctum_ , Voice…you’re not going to be able to come up with a horror show I haven’t heard before.”

“The Champion’s Voice came from Tevinter,” Bull said. “Used to belong to some magister there.” He quirked a brow at Varric’s look. “What? I know things. It’s my _job_.”

“It’s your job to be creepy as shit?” Varric countered easily. The moment of levity broke when he glanced back at Krem and read…whatever it was there was to read on his face. “Look, kid,” Varric added. “I get it. It’s fucked up in Tevinter. It’s fucked up in Ferelden. It’s fucked up pretty much anywhere you go because—hey, surprise!—the idea that two people can be spackled together by magic is _seriously fucked up_. And it’s left its share of heartache in its wake. Believe me, I am _not_ a fan.”

Krem blew out a breath. “But you knew about Dorian?” he demanded. “You knew he was trying to claim Taran? And you didn’t _do_ anything about it?”

Bull rumbled disapprovingly, shifting from foot to foot. “ _Do_ something?” he said, arms crossing. “And what would you suggest we _do_? The boss knew how he felt. Was it my job to tell him he was wrong to feel it?”

“But he _was_ wrong to feel it!” Krem was on his feet, voice risen to nearly a shout. He had to swallow back the urge to go in swinging, even though he didn’t have a target. That buzzing anxiety was building, building, building inside his chest—just knowing he’d come so close, yet again, to the claiming of an _unum vinctum_ left his skin crawling. Quieter, he added, “Because he didn’t feel it at all. Not on his own. You can’t love someone when magic’s making you feel all mixed up inside.”

“Kid,” Varric said. The way he was looking at Krem _sucked_ —there was understanding there, but exhausted pity and annoyance and empathy and care, too. It was all jumbled up—all _fucked_ up—and Krem could already tell there was no arguing with him: Varric had already made up his mind, just like Krem had, years and years ago. “Remind me to tell you about Anders someday.”

Bull put out a conciliatory hand. “Moot point, anyway,” he said. “The boss knew who Dorian was, he made his choice, and now here we are.”

“Here we are,” Krem echoed, frustrated but willing to swallow it all back again. Now wasn’t the time to fight about free will versus magical enslavement. Now wasn’t the time to argue over the sheer maddening, terrifying imbalance bred into the whole system, as if the ancient magisters had brought something far more insidious than the Blight into the world. ( _Guard your dreams carefully, child._ _For there may yet be someone hiding there watching your every move._ ) Taran was gone, and whatever Dorian’s intentions, he was still here. Alive, thanks to his…his _Voice_. Fuck. _Fuck_.

As if drawn from the Fade by that thought, Dorian shifted on his makeshift bedroll and made a soft, groggy noise—a cry, broken down the middle as if torn from his chest.

Instantly, Varric and Bull’s attention snapped away from Krem and to the ‘Vint. Krem froze, watching with held breath as Dorian shifted, turning his face against his pillow. His brows were drawn together and his lips were moving as if he were fighting his way out of dreams. Nightmares. _Something_. Long-fingered hands clutched at the blankets that had been tucked around him and, fuck, the noise he made went straight to Krem’s heart. It didn’t matter that he didn’t care much for Dorian; it didn’t matter that he didn’t trust him further than Krem could kick him. He couldn’t help but respond to that torn little sound, heart breaking in slow motion, feeling the depths of Dorian’s loss even as he tried to deny its source.

_Unum vinctum_ , a quiet part of him whispered, watching as the mage clawed his way back to reality. _Unum vinctum, unum vinctum._

He curled his hands into loose fists, watching as Varric crouched by Dorian’s side the moment the man’s dark eyes popped open. They were wide and a little wild, panic clear as he tried to struggle up. “ _Maker_ , no,” Dorian said, fighting against the covers cocooning him, “ _Taran_.”

“Hush,” Bull said, resting one big hand on Dorian’s chest as he tried to push him back. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. You—”

But Dorian refused to listen. He snarled and shoved at Bull’s hand, trying to push it away. “No,” he said; the word was thick on his tongue, and his pupils remained blown wide. He was nowhere near recovered, and yet he fought with a violence that had Krem drifting closer, hovering at Bull’s side. He figured the Chief could take him, but, well… There was something chilling and fierce about the way the ‘Vint struggled to rise to his feet. “No, damn it, let me up. _Taran_.”

“Is dead,” Varric said, somewhere between soothing and pragmatic. He had a firm grip on Dorian’s other side, holding on tight. The crossbow had been set aside, and there was something wild in his own eyes—like a dim reflection of Dorian’s pain. Crazy, Krem thought, that they had all known the Herald so little and yet felt his loss so deeply. “The Herald—the kid— _Taran_ is dead. Buried under a mountain of snow, and tearing yourself apart won’t—”

Dorian shoved back, fighting the firm grips holding him down. His usually neat black hair was a wild snarl across his forehead, caked in dry blood. Each breath came alarmingly fast. “No,” he said, “no, no, I _saw_ him, I saw, I, I… _venhedis_ I know what I saw, and—”

He broke off to gulp in a serrated breath, practically hyperventilating as he sat there—pinned down by their gentle care, fighting against the truth he hadn’t yet had time to come to grips with, utterly _gutted_ and bewildered by loss. It was a strange thing, to see a mage so ripped apart by the death of his _unum vinctum_. It made Krem feel uncomfortable, witnessing such raw emotion, unable to bring himself to turn away. Frozen himself as Bull and Varric gently eased a struggling Dorian down as if all he needed was time to grapple with the enormity of his loss, and then…

And then _what?_ And then he’d realize they were speaking the truth and Taran really was dead? And then he’d be able to come to grips with the horror show they all witnessed, standing on that distant peak as the Herald died for them?

_Ha_ , Krem thought, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill, _good luck with that._ The image would never leave his mind. How much worse would it be, he wondered, if some part of him was convinced he had any kind of claim on Taran at all?

And yet.

Yet.

_Yet_. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, even as they urged Dorian back, speaking gently over his fumbling, shattered protests. Something was there, blooming, slowly taking form—but not exactly taking _shape_. Not until Varric sighed and grabbed at one of Dorian’s flailing arms, tucking it gently back against his chest.

“I don’t know how to help him,” the dwarf said, raw. So fucking raw it was like sandpaper over Krem’s nerves. “You figure we need to knock him out again? At least until a healer can come by?” He winced. “I know, I know. It’s shitty to even wonder.”

Shitty, maybe, but also a revelation. Krem sucked in a startled breath and stumbled forward—all but flinging himself into the fray. “ _Wait_ ,” he said, grabbing at Bull’s shoulder as if the big qunari were about to bring a meaty fist across the back of Dorian’s skull. _Again_. “Wait, wait, wait. Listen to him.”

“Krem,” Bull said, tone full of censure. _You don’t understand_ , he may as well have added, but Krem just shook that off, reaching past the two of them to cup Dorian’s jaw in one sword-calloused hand.

It was strange to touch this man so intimately—to be so _close_ , those unfocused dark eyes settling on his—but looking past the fumbling confusion, he could see so very clearly. And what he saw sent a spark of pure understanding bursting inside him. “You saw him, didn’t you?” Krem said, breaking through the chaos. “While you slept.”

“ _Krem_ ,” Bull said again, but Dorian had come alight at that question, grasping onto it with two greedy hands. He strained forward, eyes locked with Krem’s, practically vibrating in place.

“I _saw_ ,” Dorian said, and stuttered to a stop again. He gave a sharp huff of breath, almost a growl. The cold, the fear, the confusion, the blow to the skull—whatever it was that had him tripping over his own thoughts made him sound insensate with grief, but the light in his eyes was too _focused_ now for that. Krem may not have liked him, but he believed him.

That thread of hope continued to spread ever-outward.

“Taran’s alive,” Krem said, certain. “Dorian saw him.” He ignored the looks Bull and Varric shot him—the looks they shot each other over his head—as he reached out to take Dorian’s hand. It was a small gesture, simple enough, but he felt something like electricity down his spine when the mage’s clammy fingers closed gratefully over his. He tugged Dorian up again, past all lingering resistance. “Tell us,” Krem said. He perched on the edge of the makeshift cot, feeling close to his countryman despite everything that separated them. Dorian had seen Taran, and Krem believed; for now, that was all they needed to be brothers. “Where is he?”

Dorian shook his head. He scrubbed at his face with the meat of his palms, trembling hard enough that Krem could feel it. He thought about reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on Dorian’s shoulder, but despite everything, they weren’t _really_ close. Maker, he didn’t even like the bastard very much. “He’s,” Dorian began, then sucked in another breath. Krem couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone this shaken. “He’s somewhere…dark. And cold. Or at least he was until he came…conscious.”

He let out a sharp puff of breath, looking up to study each of their faces in turn. Bull had gone back to crossing his arms over his big chest, brows drawn down into a frown. Varric looked… Well, like _shit_ , but there was something sparking, like fearful hope, in his eyes.

“It was… It was strange. It was… The closing of the Breach, it _changed_ , bloody, just, everything. And he…Taran…” Dorian wet his lips.

“You’re sure about this?” Bull asked gravely. “Grief can do funny things.”

Varric snorted a harsh laugh. “Nothing funny about grief,” he said. “And nothing funny about Voices, either. I guess…Maker’s beard, I guess if Dorian says he saw the kid, then he _saw_ him.”

“Somewhere dark,” Krem echoed. “And cold.” He didn’t bother to look out toward the mountaintop they were perched so precariously atop, winter winds howling up flurries of snow. The whole bloody range was _dark and cold_ ; finding Taran would be like searching for a nug in a warren.

Dorian began to rise. “I have to,” he began, seconds before his knees buckled under him. He fell back into the cot with a surprise whuff of breath, swaying against the steady hands Varric automatically shot out.

“You shouldn’t try to get up,” Varric chided, doing his best to guide Dorian until he was laying down again. To his credit, Dorian fought back with a flash of bared teeth, keeping upright even if he couldn’t rise under his own steam yet. “We haven’t been able to get a healer in to see you yet; after a blow like you took, you really shouldn’t be doing much of anything.”

The ‘Vint laughed, humorless. “The blow I took, hm?” he said, then shot Bull a pointed glare.

Bull shrugged a shoulder. “The boss asked me to,” he said philosophically. “Promised to keep you alive.”

“Yes, quite,” Dorian gritted out. He was sounding more himself again, as if all he needed was faith and a chance to drag the tattered ends of himself together again. “And when he is here, and safe, and _whole_ , believe me, he will be hearing about that.” He gestured toward Krem. “Help me up. I’ll find some spare elfroot and…and we can be on our way.”

Krem shot him a look at the order, but he stood, reaching to take Dorian’s arm despite Varric’s beleaguered sigh. Neither Varric nor Bull moved to stop him as he helped the mage to his feet again—one arm going around his waist when he swayed weakly. The small tent had been filled to choking with despair only minutes ago, but now there was real _hope_. Crazy as it seemed to rest so much on the snatches of a vision stolen from the Fade…Dorian had _seen_ Taran. He knew he was alive, at least for now—lost somewhere in the frozen night.

And they were going to find him.

Still: “Where are we going to look?” Krem demanded, helping Dorian hobble toward the entrance of the tent. Behind them, Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder and hurried to catch up, and Bull sighed and lumbered a few steps behind. As rescue crews went, they were more than a little motley, but… Well, Krem couldn’t think of anyone more _determined_ to find the Herald come void or death. “He’s your _unum vinctum_ ; do you have some kind of bead on him?”

“He’s my _Voice_ ,” Dorian said quietly, intently, with an underlay of quiet reverence that had Krem shooting him a startled glance. Dorian’s jaw was set and fine lines branched from the corners of his eyes. He still looked terrible, utterly undone, yet focused like a lodestone on some distant point. As if he was being called back to Taran despite everything. Despite reason itself. “We’ll head toward Haven. We won’t stop until we find him.”

_If he really is still alive_ , a quiet, misanthropic part of Krem wanted to say, but he couldn’t voice the doubt. He couldn’t really even believe it. Hope was a funny thing, burning brighter and brighter inside his chest as he helped the man he detested set out to track down the dead-yet-not, lost-yet-found, _bounded-slave_ -yet…Voice. Whatever the fuck _that_ meant in the long run.

Krem sighed and tightened his grip, helping Dorian step a little faster. “Let’s get you some elfroot first,” he muttered, gaze sweeping out across the windswept mountainside, already searching. “Because I am _not_ carrying you the entire bloody way.”

Behind him, smothered in an abrupt cough, Bull gave a not-too-subtle laugh—as if he could read the way Krem was already melting toward the damn bloody ‘Vint and this whole bloody crazy cult he’d found himself flung head-first into. The Herald of fucking Andraste risen again; void, he could already sense the shitstorm that would come their way once they found Taran and dragged his ass back to camp.

“Yeah,” Krem muttered beneath his breath, just loud enough the Bull—who had ears like a bloody cat—would hear him. “Let’s see who’s laughing when it’s the whole bloody _world_ who wants him dead.” Because a deranged magister they could maybe handle with enough manpower, skill, and luck, but Krem had read his history books. He _knew_ how this kind of shit went down. What happened to the chosen one and his inner circle.

What was coming for them around the bend.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Experimental Files](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460547) by [Sasskarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian)
  * [Undisclosed Desires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410214) by [Cinnamongirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamongirl/pseuds/Cinnamongirl)




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